


The Life that is Waiting for You

by a_forgotten_note



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, John is Amazing, M/M, Magic, POV Third Person, Sherlock is possessive, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 86,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_forgotten_note/pseuds/a_forgotten_note
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There, among the honeycomb pallor of his skin, lay marking that hold their own kind of sunshine glow. V-shaped tattoos of sunflower gold map John's collarbone, leaving room for curling spinning designs that race along his abdomen and arms in intricate patterns that melt into his flesh - part of him in every way."</p><p>---</p><p>Sherlock is sure that Mycroft has something sinister planned when he takes his younger brother to the country for Summer break; Mycroft never wants to leave London. However, change can't be so bad when there's a dark, abandoned house resting atop the hill just behind the Summer Estate, ready to be investigated.<br/>When Sherlock decides staying inside all Summer is a bit excessive, he decides to explore the old house; but when he meets a boy that doesn't like to obey the strict rules that Sherlock has come to learn about the world, will he accept what the boy claims to be true, or reject him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

                Among and endless sea of jade beaded grass and sleepy cerulean dew stands a lone woman, a cascade of love-struck stars admiring her willow frame and gleaming silver eyes. She is waiting; searching; praying for someone to deliver her child into safety. Some may think this a feeble hope; there is no time for this woman to speak her final words of love to her son, and the pulse of her heart grows weak with every waking moment. Her eyes monitor the journey of the stars on their charted path across the coal black skies, unfeeling and sure in their guaranteed trek while she is making her own way into Pluto’s fiery den. Cold and forgotten to the world she left to seek her own hearts’ desire, the woman turns to eyes to the ground and allows a mournful scowl to cross her lips.

                Beyond the reach of the woman, a boy stands with his flaxen hair ruffled with the silver wind in an obsidian night, hoping to find the woman is not to leave him. The trees are roaring a complaint that echo in the child’s ears, and he closes his eyes in empathetic sorrow; this woman is not to survive the night, and it seems the world about her is determined to voice its sorrow through the gentle expression of agitated, swaying movements of the grass as well as the tops of the oak trees, and breathy sounds of deep, rumbling sighs. Eyes of lapis lazuli open to spy the woman amidst the rage of the world, hiding her own regret with steely determination in her eyes and holding a ring of forged silver in her porcelain palm.

“He’ll grow, in due time.” She muses, lifting her star dusted eyes and clutching the ring in her hand close to her chest; small and breakable, this ring will keep the young boy behind her safe. As he comes to stand next to her, she absently brushes a strand of gold spun hair from his face, admiring the glow of his sun crested cheeks before kneeling beside him and slipping the small ring onto his left hand so it sat snuggly on his thumb; the only finger big enough to hold it. Not a mask, but something just as good. A face that mirrors his own without the truthful glow of his true form; a shadow of what he really is to deter the world from suspecting something other than normality for the boy. “And when he grows, you will be there for him. He is my heir; he will inherit a great gift, and with that inheritance, comes you as well.”

                Fragments of misty disconcertion linger in the boys’ eyes, clouding over their natural blue glow and sending them into a lower, stormier hue. Silence settles over the entirety of the space around them, but the boy makes no move to acknowledge it; he’s eyeing the woman before him with a lonely gaze, wondering if there is truth in her words, or if this is a teasing bit of kindness to give him the sense that he won’t be completely alone when she is gone. Heartbreak is not a feeling to take lightly, and the boy knows that it will settle in when the woman is gone; she has never told him a lie, and so he will belong to someone new. He will belong to a boy; a mere child that knows nothing of his mothers’ true form, nor does he know her real name. This feeling; the feeling of being left alone, and leaving all together, it must be torture for the woman, but this feeling is not sadness, and it is not joy. It is merely hollow.

“He will return to this place; it is fate that draws him here, along with his brother. You will wait for him, little one. My Claimed, I look to you to keep him, and guard him when he comes to you.”

                Even if the boy chose to argue, the argument would go unheard; chilled finality held an icy undertone to the woman’s words, and the boy has no heart to disobey. Graceless tears make a home among his golden cheeks, hidden by the disguise given to him by the woman. As she stands, earthy tones cry out in their own solemn choir; trees burn with fiery fear, smoking their own hazy cloud of cool summer fog, reaching across the meadow to share their grief with the boy as the woman stands proud and tall. She is beautiful, but if beauty could surpass the laws of death and cruelty, no one in the world would die. And so, the woman looks to the stars once more, bearing her soul to the cloudless sky and listening to the shimmering voices of a thousand spirits once living, now long dead. Endless roads are waiting for her to travel them, all for a son that will not understand for years to come.

                The boy watches on, hearing the trees continue their song as he bows his head; the woman is gone.


	2. The Holmes Estate

“Don’t pout, Sherlock. It’s not a very becoming expression on your face.”

Mycroft shifted his right hand from the steering wheel to flick the turning signal quickly before allowing his smooth black car to purr around a right turn before replacing it properly with a light hold. His brother continued to scowl at the window, glaring at the small bits of sunshine that made their home in the overweight grey clouds, swollen with rain and promising to dampen Sherlock’s attitude further than the already low scale it was on. It was too late for Sherlock to object to leaving London; they had already been driving for twenty minutes, and Mycroft showed no signs of turning around, no matter how much his younger brother grumbled and groaned about leaving the city.

“I’ll pout if I want, Mycroft. Keep your eyes on the road.”

                Without a response from his older brother, Sherlock resorted to rolling down his window to drown out the overwhelming sound of Mycroft’s smugness. Hot, dry air knotted itself in Sherlock’s hair as he leaned luxuriously out of the window at an angle where the frame of the car dug into his side and his head rested back against the top of the door. It wasn’t enough to be in danger of falling out of the car head-first, but enough to make Mycroft uncomfortable; bothering Mycroft was an activity that Sherlock could fully enjoy, aside from setting his brothers’ drapes on fire. Mycroft didn’t like anything to be dangerous; he liked things to be under control and predictable; Sherlock supposed that it’s one of the reasons he grew up wanting to be different and unpredictable. He had looked up to Mycroft in the past, but when his brother began to look up to Father rather than Mummy, Sherlock decided he was going to be someone different than his rule following brother.

                In that spirit, Sherlock allowed his thoughts to linger over his mother; she was a kind woman, as he remembered; tall and graceful, full of knowledge and never-ending compassion. Yes, Sherlock loved his mother, but she left the world much too soon for him to tell her that. He wanted to love her so much more, and now, he didn’t have the choice to tell her that. Shaking his head to rid it of those dark thoughts, Sherlock turned his mind towards lighter, kinder memories of his mother; long days in the forest of the Holmes Summer Estate, taking Mummy’s hand and pulling her through the trees and giving her steadfast warnings of the ‘Evil Spiders’ and ‘Dark Sand-men’ lingering in their depths.  She would always smile, Sherlock recalled; a glowing, pleased expression that seemed to cause the forest around them to relax and sigh contendedly around them; but that, of course, isn’t possible.

                As the clouds above the car began to send out warning rumbles of thunder, meaning the imminent oncoming rain, Sherlock settled back into his seat with a huff, picking at his safety belt and watching the occasional house slide past the windshield before the car rocketed past them in pursuit of a different home. Mycroft didn’t comment Sherlock’s behavior again as they drove on, merely reaching over to press down a button to seal his window as the warm summer rain dropped quickly from the heavens. The summer estate was located on the edge of a small town, Mycroft had told Sherlock earlier, and the younger Holmes watched distastefully as the borders of a town came into view through the slick wall of rain covering his vision through the window.

                Rows of extremely ordinary houses paved the road to the estate, dotted by the occasional pedestrian roaming about the town or dining at an outside restaurant beneath a sheltered canopy. It was a quiet town, Sherlock noted; he hated quiet towns. In quiet towns, there was nothing to distract him. Mummy understood that very well, she knew to always keep Sherlock moving, always thinking, never stopping to let boredom or dark thoughts linger; now, Mummy was gone, and Sherlock was going to be stuck in the sleepy little town for the summer. Trying to evade thinking about his mother, already gone for several years, Sherlock made a note of the turns Mycroft made through the town; a left turn next to a pathetically small library, passing a butcher shop that hardly looks operational, and a slight right turn onto a hill that slowly slanted the car upward. The car didn’t travel too far up the hill; only moving about ten feet onto the inclined plane before turning into a driveway that was tucked between to large oak trees.

“Try not to be too rude to the Landlady, Sherlock.” Mycroft cautioned his sibling as they pulled up in front of the house, sending a small warning glance to his brother from the corner of his eye. “You don’t want to anger the only person who will be your only companion besides me, now would you?”

“Good god, Mycroft,” Sherlock rolled his eyes as the car was shifted into park and an elderly man slipped from a side door of the estate to unpack the bags from the boot of the car and lug them inside.  “You make me sound like a teenage invalid.”

“For good reason, I assure you.”

                The elder Holmes smirked as he slunk out of the car, leaving Sherlock to fume and fester for a moment before following suit. The estate was just a large as Sherlock always remembered it; two floors and seemingly endless in both directions; painted a fading robins’ egg blue in the past, the paint had slowly faded to a forlorn grey that reflects the storm clouds that currently resided in the sky above the home. Sherlock stomped toward the house, defiantly taking his time to get sopping wet in the rain and make Mycroft seem like a horrible example; this tactic proved worthless when an elderly woman fluttered her hands in a beckoning motion to the teen, twittering about catching a cold to Mycroft.

“Come in; come in, the both of you!” Sherlock mused that she must be the landlady – Mrs. Hudson; Mycroft had called her on the phone yesterday – as he stepped through a heavy wooden door and pushes it shut for the woman who insisted on taking his jacket and hanging it up on an ornamental coat hanger to his right. “You almost beat the rain; such a shame you couldn’t get a look at the grounds while it was still so nice outside, Sherlock.”

                With a start, Sherlock looked to his brother for an explanation; there was no memory that the younger Holmes had of this woman; no, Sherlock couldn’t remember meeting this woman before. However, Mycroft made no move to explain the woman, merely peeling off his own jacket and handing it to Mrs. Hudson before raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson smiled – a motherly expression Sherlock wasn’t used to seeing on strangers – and pat his rain dampened shoulder soothingly.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about not remembering me,” Sherlock nodded slowly as she delicately hung Mycroft’s coat up; she was small, but demanded the attention of both men as she stood before them with her hands clasped together. “The last time I saw you, Sherlock, you were just a little thing.”

                Mrs. Hudson fluttered her fingers over her lips again, blinking quickly as if she had said something exceptionally personal while Sherlock sent a disbelieving glance to his brother. Mycroft merely put his hands into the pockets of his trousers and gave a thin, fake smile to the woman; ever the polite man that Sherlock knew he really was not. It isn’t long before Mrs. Hudson smiled at Sherlock again and took his right hand in her own; Sherlock allowed himself to be taken, as long as Mrs. Hudson would be talking to Mycroft and not to him.

“How about I show you to a room? We definitely have plenty to spare.”

                Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson shared a quick, mutual laugh as Sherlock merely watched on, busying himself with the architecture of the estate, rather than social niceties. Pillars of ancient Rome supported the corners of the entrance, bracing along the sides of the building as they walked on through hallways; Sherlock admired the alabaster paneling of the pillars before taking in the paintings that pepper the walls. Sherlock knew of these paintings; many were historical interpretations of Gods and Goddesses, both Roman and Greek, some were depictions of the family; Father in his study, Mycroft practicing the cello while Sherlock played the violin with him, Mummy herself painting away at her easel in the garden, content and peaceful as she was. All of the images were painted by Sherlock’s own mother; he still remembers modeling for portraits, seated atop a stool and impatient to see what she would do.

                His mother was always mischievous, peeking around her canvas to smile at him, only to duck back behind the hemp to continue dabbing at the material with the liquid rainbow on her palette. The last painting she had done was of him and Mycroft, though he did not recall posing for such an image; as they walk past the painting on his left, he regard the portrayal with the ghost of a smile on his lips: He and Mycroft were seated beneath their mother’s favorite willow tree, looking down at a book in Mycroft’s lap with smiles that shone with mutual enthrallment. Mummy had been very proud of that picture, signing it with the entire family in the room happily: Danabell Holmes.

                When Mycroft’s phone interrupted Sherlock’s musing, the younger Holmes glared at his sibling, watching with a disapproving scowl as the entire group drew to a halt so Mycroft could pluck his mobile from his pocket and discover his caller. A faint twitch crossed Mycroft’s expression, unnoticeable to most, but obvious to his brother; someone has done something that he didn’t like, pushing his predictable and controllable thoughts into the guardrail on the highway of his mind.

“Please excuse me; I need to take this.”

                Mycroft strode away, holding the mobile to his ear and already muttering in sharp, clipped tones that were sure to be inflicting pain on the receivers’ ear. Mrs. Hudson pat Sherlock’s arm as if he was in need of comfort, saying something along the lines of ‘he’ll be back soon’ before continuing down the hall with the young Holmes. She seemed to understand that Sherlock was not the chatting type, and held her tongue when Sherlock slowed his gate to regard another painting of Mycroft and himself before resuming as fluidly as he had slowed. When they reach the end of a hall that was concluded by a ceiling high window, Mrs. Hudson gripped Sherlock’s arm just a bit tighter, whispering to him as if he’d fall through the floor if she spoke too loudly.

“That room there,” She gestured to the door furthest to the right, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the door; nothing to recall. “That used to be your favorite room. You’d always go there if you wanted to be alone; I had Lance bring your things to that room already, but if you don’t want to stay there, I’d understand.”

“Well, I’d like to see the inside before you go and decide that I don’t want to stay there.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled at Sherlock warmly as if he was the most charming thing since Mycroft learned to speak French, pulling him to the door and opening it in one swift flick of her wrist. Small flecks of dust hover in the air as they stepped inside, dancing with their movements and clinging to their clothing as they crossed the threshold. Mrs. Hudson released Sherlock and allowed him to move into the room alone, looking around the room with a vague expression. Covered in a thick layer of dust, and cloudy with the air of ages, the room was not what Sherlock really expected; the bed was close to the window, nearly making it a window seat whereas his bed in London was far from the window. A bookshelf was cradled against the far wall, empty except for a spider web that spun a lazy trap for nonexistent insects in the bedroom.

Why would anyone want such a neglected room? Sherlock pursed his lips and turned in a grand circle in his place, seeing no other childhood furniture present in the space; no rocking horse that he enjoyed in his past visits as a child, no toys that he remembered leaving behind; it was as if everything from his last visit was swept out along with all other remnants of his childhood in the house, leaving only the bed the empty bookshelf in their rightful place by the window. Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock wandered to the window, pressing his knees into the soft mattress of the bed and sending up another layer of dust motes into the air in the process. A skeleton key rested on the windowsill, cloaked in dust and undisturbed, just as the rest of the room was; even though it was his room, Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to steal the key quite yet. Not yet.

The glass was hazy with dust and dirt, but a cloudy silhouette  was visible through the grime; pulling at the cuff of his sleeve, Sherlock used it to wipe away just enough of the dirt to see exactly why he had his bed next to this particular window all those years ago; he could always change his shirt anyway. Though there was dirt caked to the other side of the glass, Sherlock could still spot the outline of another large house, just on the edge of the estate. Leaning back on the bed, Sherlock scowled at the shape; why would another house sit so close to the estate, and much more, how did he see it every night before he went to bed as a child and not remember it to that day?

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock heard the landlady more than he saw her approach, her small flats clicking on the smooth wooden floors as she lingered around the edge of the bed. He gestured to the shape of the house through the glass with a loose shake of his wrist. “What is this?”

“That is another house your dear mother had built,” There was something else lingering on the edge of her tongue, but she made no move to voice it as she continued. “She said she needed it for something, but never had anything put inside; people say it’s empty for years.”

                Sherlock frowned again at the house that lay easily fifty feet away from him; why would his mother order something so useless to be built? Mummy was not a woman to buy frivolous things if she didn’t need them for a good, solid reason. Turning to face Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock shook his head with an exasperated expression, waving a hand dismissively at the building.

“’Empty for years’, you say. Why not tear it down, then? There’s no reason to keep a building without any use.”

Mrs. Hudson was quick to shake her head, holding up a hand as if to block his verbal reasoning with a physical restraint. Sherlock’s frown slowly slid down into a glare; Mycroft did the same thing to him when he tried to tell Sherlock that his chemistry set was pointless.

“No; people ‘say’ that it’s empty. That doesn’t mean that it is.”

“Well,” Sherlock stood with a flourish, brushing the dust from his trousers and trying to get past the landlady’s feeble defense. “Has anyone gone inside or come out of the building all these years?”

                This argument seemed to break up the small illusion of steadfast sureness in Mrs. Hudson’s stature, and she fumbled for a way to defend the house all over again. Sherlock gave her a look that was commonly associated with ‘I don’t quite understand why you don’t think logically’, stationing his fisted hands on his hips and letting out an annoyed sigh. Tired, aged blue eyes sought out answers on the floor for a moment before closing; Mrs. Hudson had something to say, but Sherlock could only imagine what it was. When she lifted her eyes to his, her confidence seemed rebuilt and unshakable once more.

“No; no one goes in, and no one comes out.” Sherlock sputtered for a moment, not believing her naivety before receiving another silencing hand from Mrs. Hudson that he’s sure he’d receive more often than not when he spoke to her. “However, that doesn’t mean someone isn’t inside.”

                Narrowing his eyes at the kind woman before him, Sherlock struggled to accept the idea that she could be talking about something other than a corpse. A corpse would definitely be interesting; it could be decaying at an extremely slow rate; Sherlock could use the bones in experiments; he could use them to scare Mycroft. Ideas fluttered through Sherlock’s mind before Mrs. Hudson turned back to the window with the shadow of a smile on her lips.

“And if someone’s inside, maybe it’s because they’re waiting for someone.” As Sherlock turned his gaze back to the landlady, she shook her head as if to ruffle her thoughts back into place before leaning forward and patting Sherlock’s arm. “Oh, just listen to me going on about that house while I should be getting you and your brother a cup of tea. We turned right from the entrance to go down this hall, so just go down the opposite way to find the kitchen; double doors, you can’t miss it.”

                Scurrying out of the room, Mrs. Hudson conducted a new wave of dust swirling up into the air while she hummed a bright, upbeat tune that contrasted sharply with the cryptic words she had just said. Eyeing the hall for a moment after she had gone, waiting for her to come stumbling back in ranting about ghosts or goblins; something so completely idiotic, it strained on Sherlock’s senses just to think about, but she didn’t return, and soon the sound of her humming was too quiet for Sherlock to hear anymore. Fragments of crystalline intrigue prodded at Sherlock’s mind despite the farfetched idea of extraterrestrial beings lingering within the confines of the building; no, it was most likely just a silly thing Mrs. Hudson said just to make Sherlock paranoid; a joke, probably. Yet, this didn’t stop Sherlock from taking the key from the windowsill and slipping it into his pocket.

                The hallway was longer than he remembered and his thick leather shoes clap against the heavy red carpet floor as he moved with quick confidence toward the kitchen; if Mycroft caught him, he’d never get out and to the mysterious house. Hearing the sound of his brothers’ voice emanating from a nearby room, Sherlock quieted his steps and snuck smoothly past the door to ensure his safety before resuming his fast-pace stride toward Mrs. Hudson. His coat was waiting for him on the hanger, and he pulled it down quickly, his thoughts spinning in many different directions; what if there really was a corpse in the house on the edge of the estate? Excitement spurred Sherlock on, and he pushed open the double doors of the kitchen with a light shove, immediately catching sight of Mrs. Hudson past a large wood table working away at a stove. She turned, obviously surprised by the abrupt entrance.

“Oh, Sherlock,”

“Is there a side door I can use?” Mrs. Hudson’s body seemed to lock for a moment, stilling all signs of movement, and Sherlock contemplated turning around and storming out the front door to face the rain even longer if it means avoiding the woman’s strange moods. The momentary shock was gone within a moment, quickly replaced by a smile as Sherlock attempted to explain himself. “I know it’s raining, I just wanted to go outside for a breath of fresh air and,”

“Right there, dear.” She pointed to a door off to Sherlock’s left with a cherubic smile. “There’s a torch in the drawer by the door; be home before dinner.”

                Sherlock made a mental note that if anyone ever tried to say that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t a saint, he would personally find them and show them the full extent of a Holmes’ wrath. Giving Mrs. Hudson an honest smile that he rarely presented to anyone, Sherlock whirled to the left, spotting a green door facing the same direction as the house behind the estate. Delving into the implicated drawer and pulling out a torch, Sherlock slipped out the door with a quick farewell to the landlady he’d newly come to respect.

                The rain hadn’t worsened since he and Mycroft had arrived, but it hadn’t made any move to lighten; the clouds above the estate were still heavy with copious amounts of rain, and Sherlock was devoted to avoiding it as much as possible. Tucking the torch into his pocket, Sherlock ducked his head and sprinted through the slick, emerald grass that mapped the entirety of the yard to the tree line that marked the edge of the estate and the beginning of the next property. Technically, Sherlock smiled, it was still his property because it was his mothers’, and he was his mothers’ son. As he passed the thin line of elm trees, Sherlock peered up at the strange house; dark and eerily ready to be explored.

                Sherlock smiled victoriously, proud that he was having a fine time while his brother was busy speaking with useless employees. Pulling the torch out of his pocket as he neared the front door, he wondered exactly what he find inside; it could be a dumping ground for bodies, piled up in the basement and the floor still stained a thick russet by the blood. There could be the remains of a terrorist plot against the British government, smothered by an unknown source while the Holmes family saved the nation from a severe downfall; Sherlock’s heart leapt at that idea. Standing on the stoop of the house, Sherlock took a breath, assessing the heavy brass knockers on the door before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the skeleton key he retrieved from his new room and crouching down before the lock to see if it matches; the torch lit up the lock and key, shining over the perfect match and causing Sherlock’s smile to grow; he was definitely hoping for at least a double homicide.


	3. Secret House

                As a young boy, Sherlock knew very well that being afraid of the dark was not very conducive to learning about things at night, using this flicker of thought to his advantage, Sherlock made sure that he never let the ideas of vampires or zombies stain his image of the night. He understood that he had an imagination, and his dreams would always be terrorized with the fear that he’d never allow to come crawl into his reality with blood stains and missing limbs, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant that he wouldn’t be afraid of the dark while he was awake. Dreams were different than reality to him; they always felt real, but that his mother had assured him that dreams could never hurt him.

                Turning the key in the lock of his new mystery play-house, Sherlock heard the dull, metallic thud of the tumbler before the bolts slid and allowed the door to be opened. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, nor was he afraid of the lightening that illuminated the backdrop of the world around him as he stood up straight and slid his hand over the obsidian wood of the door, pressing forward with almost the entirety of his weight before using both hands and flattening his palms against the surface of the door until it gave a mighty sigh, giving into his pressure and opening inward.

                Predictably like any other ‘haunted house’, the interior is dark and lifeless, gleaming only when the light of Sherlock’s torch passes over it, illuminating the space only big enough to encompass the circumference of light emanating from him before moving away and looking at something else. The entryway is wide and open with no furnishings to hinder his exploration; empty, like his bedroom. Two flights of stairs bracket the entry way, adorned with cobwebs that hung onto the banisters and swayed with the suggestion of wind that came from the open door. It was the vision of abandoned, and yet, the floors and walls were clean; void of any type of dust or dirt, no droppings from mice or bats, it was simply too clean to be empty. The brontide of the summer storm kicked Sherlock’s heart into a higher gear, and he loved the rush of adrenaline that surged forward in its wake.

                Stepping into the house, Sherlock swept the light of his torch over the large room in front of him; it was clean enough to note that the walls weren’t covered in a thick layer of dust, but the light of his torch caught the subtle trails of dust specs floating about the air in their wobbling patterns of flight, catching the light only to disappear from sight as he turned away. Windows hung low over the banister of the second floor, tall and wide as they let in the small crepuscular rays of light that struggled to push their way through the stormy clouds that still let out a steady wall of rain. Sherlock moved the beam over light over the interfenestration of the windows, moving over each panel before squinting against the whip-crack of thunder, followed by the streak of a stark lightning bolt across the dark canvas of the sky.

“It’s rude, you know,” Sherlock jumped at the sound of a voice; too close, to real. Not his imagination; it was a person. He spun on his heel, losing his good footing and catching only the small glint of a white shirt against the beige interior of the house with his torch before righting himself and backing up a few cautious steps. A young boy, about his age, stood at the foot of the stairs stationed at his right, lax and calm as if he had every right to be standing there. “Coming into someone’s house uninvited.”

                Sherlock’s jaw went slack as he digested the boys’ words and monitored his appearance; he was standing with the controlled posture of a soldier at parade rest, holding his hands behind his back with a raised chin as his feet stood as still as stone, shoulder width apart. The nelipot on the stairs was quiet after he had accused Sherlock of being rude, staining the air in the room an unbearable shade of pale ignorant annoyance as he watched Sherlock through heavy eyelids. His skin was tanned, making him seem as if he was a shockingly honeycomb hue against the stark white pallor of his white trousers – a simple garment that was fluid enough to look as if it hadn’t been sewn together, merely allowing the fabric to meld itself together and fall over the strangers’ legs – and a white short sleeved shirt that seemed to be made out of the same material. Sherlock swallowed; he hadn’t seen the stranger on the stairs when he first swept the light over them, nor had he heard the boy walk down them; surely, he would have noticed something like that.

“I do have a key,” Sherlock mumbled, licking his lips when the stranger blinked his blue eyes; almost too blue to be real. They were a striking, electric blue of lapis lazuli that inundated the small specs of pupil that Sherlock could see from fifteen feet away. “My family owns this property; you shouldn’t be here.”

                Sherlock knew he had every right to tell the boy such, but he didn’t feel his heart behind the statement; he felt increasingly uneasy, like the floor had just buckled beneath his feet and he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to stay where he was or run for his life. The boy pursed his lips as if deep in thought, dropping his piercing blue gaze to the floor before looking back up through his cinereous eyelashes and smiling coyly.

“There’s only one key to this house; did I misplace it?”

                 Allowing his lips to kick up into a smile, Sherlock shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, feeling his unease slide back onto a more controllable level of panic. The boy was teasing and gave off a kind and easygoing air, although his stark white clothing inspired thoughts of a mental institution and a straightjacket with those blue eyes darting about, wildly searching for something in the room whilst the world ignored his ramblings.

“Well, I should think so. The key was in my bedroom.” Sherlock repositioned the torch so that he almost looked like he was holding a gun to the stranger before continuing, confirming that his feet were square on the ground while the boy watched, motionless. “Who are you?”

                Giving Sherlock a heart-stopping smile, the boy seemed to gleam with his own sort of conducted light, giving off an ochroleucous glow from his warm colored skin. Sherlock blinked at him, writing it of as a reflection of the torch in his hand as thunder rumbles ominously around the house and echoing in the open door that let in its own dim light from outside.

“Me? I’m...” The stranger thought for a moment, as if his name wasn’t something he often thought about in his time in the house that very clearly didn’t belong to him. “John. John Watson.”

                Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock shuffled his feet once more; the georgette trail of his name left much to be desired, leaving the young Holmes to narrow his eyes in conclusion. The clouds outside grumble their own disapproval, rumbling in low harmony with the pattering rain.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I remember, now. Who are you?”

                Looking to the front door for a moment, Sherlock considers giving the stranger his name or merely leaving the house with the excuse that he was seeing things; this blonde appeared out of nowhere and was acting strangely. Giving the image that Sherlock had captured of the stranger a hard look in his mind, glaring at the heavy door with a frown that could split rock; the rain still fell, and the house was quiet say for the sound of Sherlock’s breathing and the empty drip of forlorn drops of rain clinging to the overhanging shelter above the door. Turning back to the stranger, Sherlock realized a bit too late: John wasn’t on the stairs anymore.

                Spinning in a large circle with his torch held out like a weapon, Sherlock searching frantically for the boy, praying the behind him somewhere wasn’t a crazed blonde maniac holding a hatchet, waiting for the light of the torch to fall on him. Not on the stairs, not up the stairs, not in front of the window; the young Holmes began to wonder if he had just let a murderer out into the world by Mrs. Hudson’s vague suggestion. Perhaps he was her illegitimate son, placed in this house when he started ripping people apart? Sherlock shook his head; no, Mrs. Hudson wasn’t that kind of woman. She was warm and motherly, not the type to go and house young murderers.

                Sherlock sucked in deep breaths to calm himself when he realized that the stranger must’ve moved – silently, secretly – away from the stairs, and was currently somewhere other than the shaky circle that Sherlock had illuminated in his search. Slowing down his jerking turns and desperate switch of his direction of torch-pointing, Sherlock swallowed as he turned back to the front door; there was John, leaning back against the wall aside the door as if he’d been standing there the entire time the curly haired teen had been looking for him. Sherlock shouted in alarm, stumbling back a few steps hearing a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning emphasize his shocked surprise as the strangers’ eyes widened in astonishment.

“I scared you, didn’t I? I’m sorry,” John took a few steps toward Sherlock, but rethought it when the young Holmes eyed him cautiously with breaths that could’ve been easily mistaken for hyperventilation. He held his hands in front of him in an ‘I’m harmless’ gesture that didn’t console Sherlock, and tried to give him another warm smile; Sherlock didn’t let himself be pulled in. “I’m sorry; please, don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you; do you really think I’d hurt you?”

“Would you?”

                The young detective frowned at the stranger as he gave a negative shake of his head, still holding his smile all the while. He didn’t want to trust the blonde, but his smile was contagiously chipping away at his restraint; his movement was impossible for Sherlock to miss. He would’ve heard John move, or at least cast a bit of light over him when he went to stand next to the doorway. Pulling his soiled composure together, Sherlock swallowed all ideas of running; with the way the stranger moved, he would probably catch him.

“You’re Sherlock, aren’t you? Sherlock Holmes? Please say that you are.” John moved forward again, seemingly ignorant to the fact that Sherlock was still spooked by the idea of his invisible movements. Stumbling backward until his back hit the railing of the stairs uncomfortably and caused his spine to arch forward in a surprised jolt, Sherlock kept a firm beam of light on the boy, making sure that he never disappeared from sight as he advanced. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Said the lion to the lamb.”

                Sherlock hissed, pressing his palm to the wall behind him and creeping back until he was almost standing in front of the door that was sheltered beneath the stairs. The blonde boy paused, pivoting his head to the side and letting out a small puff of laughter, as if what Sherlock had said was somehow humorous.

“Is that what you think I am?” John smirked a bit, sending Sherlock’s mind reeling down dark paths that included be bludgeoned to death with his own torch. “I think you’ve got things a bit backward; you are the lion, and I am the lamb. I won’t hurt you.”

                Biting his lip, Sherlock presented the stranger with a glare that was sure to make those impossibly blue eyes flinch away, looking anywhere but at him; his efforts proved in vain when John smiled kindly, as if Sherlock had said something sweet through his glare. Sherlock wondered if this boy suffered from agerasia; seemingly young but secretly an older man just waiting for an unsuspecting child to come wandering into the house out of curiosity; Sherlock blinked hard, opening his eyes to watch John carefully. No, that wasn’t the case. He really was young. Strangely young enough to be Sherlock’s age, without a care in the world that he’d been in this house alone for god knows how many years. Attempting to keep his hand holding the torch steady, Sherlock sucked in a deep breath.

“What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?”

                John’s smile seemed to grow, casting his eerie glow about the room once more; as if a flicker of lightening had struck the house and its presence still lingered in a faint promise of light. Sherlock watched the glow, observing that it only appeared over John’s skin – a pale, translucent yellow glow that reminded him of honey – and was smothered by the covering of his plain white clothing.

“I know that he’s the son of Danabell Holmes.” He took a breath, obviously holding another stretch of words from pouring out of him and instead handing Sherlock small, tailored facts. “I know that he should be coming back here. I know that I’m waiting for him.”

                Sherlock felt a tug of fear below his ribs, as if a hook was caught under his diaphragm and was pulling up, causing small startled breaths from him as his hand shook noticeably. John didn’t advance – much to Sherlock’s trembling relief – but he didn’t move away; he understood that he was supposed to stay firmly placed in front of Sherlock, where he could be seen, and monitored.

“Why?” The word seemed frightfully desperate against Sherlock’s lips, and as soon as he said it, he began to calculate how fast he would be able to knock John to the floor and push his was out the door; not fast enough. It would take at least three seconds to tackle the blonde to the floor, and with those three seconds, John would easily move to keep him from escaping. Sherlock swallowed once more. “Why are you waiting for him?”

“To show him something.”

                The answer was quick, punctuated by a strike of lightning that shone through the overhead windows and set the room a bright albicant color before settling back into the atrous darkness that Sherlock – as a child – had learned to tolerate. Sherlock didn’t like guessing games, nor did he like the fact that John was being coy with his answers; he was a man of science, and enjoyed knowing exactly who – and what – he was up against.

“Show him what?”

He wondered aloud, wanting there to be no secrets hanging in the static air between him and the possible madman. John smiled, setting off another chain reaction across the space eclosed in the house that made Sherlock shift where he stood and his hand holding the torch to quiver uncomfortably; untrusting.

“Something mysterious. He likes mysteries. Danabell told me so.”

                Sherlock was a logical boy, full of knowledge that he’d come to learn by following his mother or brother and seamlessly soaking up each tidbit of information they dropped amid their conversation, retaining each fact and quickly learning by osmosis. Yet, he was always reckless in the ways of running off to London during the middle of his classes at Eton – earning himself a private tutor that was now on paid vacation for the summer – or stealing away to Scotland Yard to filch a cold case file for his own amusement – granting himself a special ban from the Yard until he was twenty years old from the young Detective Inspector Lestrade – or even lifting Mycroft’s mobile from his jacket pocket just to scroll through the contacts when he was bored – earning himself a lengthy talking to from his brother.

Even with his knowledge and reckless nature, Sherlock couldn’t help the fact that he felt oddly caught between the dark claws of the earth and the warmer, softer hand of John Watson. He said that his mother had told him things about him; what kind of things? What would his mother say to a complete stranger about her son? Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock pushed away from the wall to give John the presentation of his open stance, even though his guard was up; he wanted to see what he’d do.

“I am Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know. You have Danabell’s eyes; they’re a one of a kind sort of color, I think.” John nodded to himself, almost agreeing with his own mundane statement before shuffling his left foot back and forth shyly before motioning to Sherlock’s dark curls. “And her hair, I don’t think any random squatter would come into this house, with a key no less, and not be one of the Holmes’ family members.”

                There was a pause, light and easy in comparison to the heady, rushing adrenaline Sherlock had been experiencing when plotting an escape route out of the house. John stood his place, resuming his neutral stance as a soldier at rest while Sherlock drummed his fingers across the throat of the torch, waiting; he wasn’t precisely sure what he was waiting for, but when it came, he knew he’d be ready to bash it over the head with chrome coated metal if it advanced toward him. Though he tensed when John leaned forward, he found himself inclining toward the blonde with a vague sort of curiosity; a suggestive, contagious sort of interest that seeped into his hair and dripped through his muscles in a smooth sweep of brainless trust. John’s presence was the sun over the surface of a bed while Sherlock was a cat, drenched from the rain and eager to lie down and rest; warm and addictive, his presence was quickly becoming a dangerous combination of thoughts in Sherlock’s mind, causing his giddy whirl of sparking interest overshadow the fact that John was a stranger, and therefore, still dangerous. John smiled.

“Do you want to see it?”

“What?”

                John leaned back, rocking back on his heels with a ringing peel of laughter that echoed off of the hollow wood in the house, causing his expression to lift and his eyes to crinkle with a smile that seemed to almost burst at the seams. Sherlock found himself insulted by the reaction to his question, but was too busy watching the blonde giggle to himself to say anything; he was so _bright_. Filled with everything light and warm, John was almost the living embodiment of the very idea of warmth. Only laughing for a few seconds, the stranger was quickly watching Sherlock with his crooked smile once more, raising his eyebrows and indicating to the door behind him with the limp gesture of his left hand.

“This way.” Turning to watch the door, Sherlock let his eyes flutter shut; he’d turned his back to the stranger in the house. The stranger that had been there for god knows how long, moving too quickly to be possible, and wearing crisp white clothing straight from a mental health institution. Holding his breath, Sherlock waited for the blow to the middle of his back, momentarily immobilizing him with a quick slam to his vertebra that wracked his nerves, or a restraining hand across his mouth that held in each pleading call to Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson; but, it never came. “Are you coming?”

                Opening his eyes to the door which now stood open with John just beside its frame with a smug, waiting smile, Sherlock eyed John in all his strangely warm glory, pursing his lips before striding forward and holding the flashlight close to John’s face. The blonde’s eyes widened before scrunching shut with a breathy laugh; his breath fluttered across Sherlock’s cheeks – only a liberal five inches away – and gave him an inhale that smelled strongly of tea and peppermint. Sherlock squinted at the stranger that merely held his eyes closed peacefully as he was backed against the doorway, smiling as usual; the young Holmes remembered something about peppermint, just beyond his reach. Taking a few moments to see if John would stab him – he didn’t – or if John would open his eyes again and give him one more glance at his startling blue eyes in the pupil-shrinking light of his torch – he wouldn’t – Sherlock took a step back and let John go through the doorway first, waving him forward with his arm.

“Lead the way.”

                John walked calmly through the door, looking back only once to make sure that Sherlock was going to follow him as he moved forward through the unwelcoming hallway. The walls were a deep, sheltering purple color, encasing them in a cozy aubergine environment while John turned past three corners – Sherlock carefully documented the fact that these turns were a left, right, then another sharp left turn – before slowing his pace as they drew near to a dead-ended hallway. At the end of the hallway, Sherlock noted, was a copper colored door, contrasting messily with the walls with his auburn hue and snatching the young detectives attention from anything around him as he watched it. John stopped in front of the door, turning to Sherlock and watching him expectantly while the door stood clashing with the dark heliotrope walls. Seeming to have forgotten how to speak, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the blonde, waving his torch at the door in a vague question of ‘you want me to open it?’ before simply moving forward and zeroing in on the door with the light in his hand. John’s presence disappeared when the light wasn’t on him, as if his very life depended on having some sort of beacon to hold him to the material plane or he’d simply vanish. Well, he did vanish, Sherlock thought with a grimace, turning the brass doorknob with a rattling squeak that caused him to wince and glare at the door until it opened compliantly and without fuss.

                Inside, where he suspected a pile of bodies or at least a mound of storage boxes filled with a case file that no one had been able to solve for years, was nothing but a three-legged round table with a thick book sitting regally atop its surface. Pivoting the angle of his light, Sherlock swept the beam across the room, picking up only the flecks of dust suspended in the air and the occasional wriggle of a spiders’ web being strung; John had materialized in the far right corner of the ‘mystery room’, watching quietly as Sherlock jumped in his place before settling down and holding the torch to him while he moved further over the threshold.

“This is it?”

                Sherlock gave a wide wave to the interior of the room, obviously not impressed by one book waiting on a table for him. He readied himself for the ominous slam of a door, being locked in while John prowled forward; John stayed where he was, studying Sherlock with a guarded expression instead of his more natural looking smile. When John moved toward the middle of the room – where the book lay – Sherlock backed himself into the far corner, presenting the torch like a gun once more before the blonde stopped his advances at the table. Reaching out to press the tips of his fingers to the cover of the tome with a forlorn expression, John spoke quietly and quickly.

“Your mother was a good woman, Sherlock.” The young Holmes pursed his lips, waiting for a ‘but’ or ‘better when she’s dead’, but John hurried on with his statement with fervent honesty. “She helped me once, when I was really little… I owe my life to her, and I told her that I’d happily repay my debt to her any way I could. So, I became what we call a ‘Claimed’, owned by a Deity; in my case, your mother.”

                This was pushing the boundaries of what Sherlock classified as ‘clinically insane’ and sweeping over the borders of ‘I’m stalking your family and making up a fake life with them in it’, taking the prize for the most mentally unstable person Sherlock had ever met, topping even a boy named Philip Anderson in Sherlock’s old class – he thought he could actually beat Sherlock’s score of not missing a single question on a pop quiz, and Sherlock had stood up and yelled the answers at the top of his lungs to the rest of the class so they could ‘know how it felt to have someone like Anderson breathing down their necks’. So, shuffling his feet toward John, Sherlock slowly moved forward to study the mental patient in his element while he spoke.

“This book… this book says everything you should need to know about your mother, and how she came to be here. It might help you understand my role in all of this.” John looked up to catch Sherlock in his attempt to move as close as possible without being noticed; he had gotten as close as two feet away from John before the blonde had noticed him. The blue eyed boy smiled, looking down to the book beneath his hand before continuing. “You must be wondering how I move so quickly,” John looked almost pleased with himself, patting the cover of the book with his tanned palm. “That would be written in the book. Then again, you don’t have to take it, though I’d like you to. It’s up to you whether or not you want to accept this.”

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow, looking down at the book before preparing to sprint out of the door, no matter how fast John was. He was determined to run. John’s eyes flicked up again, capturing Sherlock with a humming sense of importance while he gave his last statement.

“If you don’t want to accept the fact that your mother was not what she seemed, I understand. You can leave, and never come back; I’d understand. But, if you leave without this book, I won’t be here if you come back.”

“You’d leave if I didn’t take this book?”

                John nodded solemnly, not taking his hand from the book as Sherlock loosened his grip on his torch, angled his body toward the book, and began the trek back to the front entrance of the Secret House, perfectly framed in his mind. Catching him with the glint of his mothers’ somewhat wondrous behavior; the way she would wish the rain away and the skies would clear, the way her singing would bring the sweetest dreams, and the way her arms were the most welcome of any embrace he’d ever shared; Sherlock knew he’d regret it if he turned around and picked up that book. Turning on his heel and flashing the light of the torch over the now vacant room, Sherlock plucked the book, dusty with years of neglect say for the imprint of a hand pressed through the layer of dirt, off of the table and raced out of the room, through the twisting turns of the underbelly of the house, and out the large doors, closing them in his wake while he tried to push the idea of John’s voice calling to him as he closed the doors.

“I’ll see you soon, Sherlock."


	4. Her Diary

            If books could speak, they would only make sounds of the hush whispers and hums of memories that have passed their pages. Sitting flat upon a table or atop a person’s thigh, suspended in mid-air by trusting hands, the pages would record each hush caress and sweep of fingers over the paper, bringing the sensations to life only in the berth of their width, seemingly growing larger as more people read them. In Sherlock's hands, the leather bound book was ordinary in the extreme, only speaking to him in the velvet tones of his mothers' loving alto voice, and the pages were thin from lonely days spent in the underbelly of the Strange House.

            When he'd come home, he'd marched through the kitchen, scurried past Myroft in the drawing room – still speaking with his subordinate – and shut himself in his room. Thinking it no big deal, he had tossed the book onto the thick, clean quilt Mrs. Hudson had no doubt brought to replace the dust-filled comforter that had once inhabited the space. For the time being, Sherlock was determined not to rip the book open and decipher what kind of mad secret lay in its depths; no, he was a calm, reasonable boy. He knew that much. So, with a sour expression, he peeled off his coat which had surely brought almost all of the rain from the sky inside the house with it, and cautiously hung it in the closet on the far left side of the room, studiously ignoring the book on his bed until the garment was seated happily on a metal hanger. The hanger made a sad clinking sound when it was cast on the empty rail amongst several other hangers, swiveling in place and causing the others to follow suit and bring up a chorus of metallic chimes, but Sherlock merely turned away and peeled off his trousers in pursuit of dry clothing.

            With clean black trousers warming his rain dampened legs and cozy socks covering his cold toes, the teen padded across his new room to settle atop the blankets with a guarded expression. From all angles, it seemed like an encyclopedia of some sorts; holding secrets that John had deemed important enough to stay in the Strange House for who knows how long, and important enough for his mother to know about. Sherlock scowled; John said his mother had helped him once, long ago; how would she have helped the blonde? He seemed like a fine mental patient, and surely his mother didn't go around to mental health institutions to break out patients in her spare time. Each spare moment Danabell had was spent with her children, not for anyone else or with anyone else; Father would go off on strange trips with strange women, but mother would always be there, holding her sons close as if they would fall apart without her.

            Sherlock hadn't really understood the adult world when he was three years old; he was still struggling to grip the concept of advanced calculus – Mycroft had teased him with equations that only the older boy could solve – and wasn't interested in words such as 'affair' and 'infidelity'. Mummy would merely kneel in front of him and Mycroft after Father left, pulling them into her arms and whispering to them in cracked, broken tones that made Sherlock and Mycroft's dislike for their Father grow every day.

“Father is just very, very busy, my loves,” She would hum into their hair, kissing each of their heads in turn before finishing her thoughts. “But Mummy will love you twice as much to make up for his love.”

            So, with all of her time consumed with consoling her sons and herself alike, how would she have had time to help John amidst the family drama? Sherlock brought his legs up onto the bed to sit cross-legged in front of the book, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his right palm. His mother was a smart woman; a caring woman, most would say. How would she have time to worry about the boy in the Strange House, and have her sons know nothing about it? This was a thought that made Sherlock’s stomach churn uncomfortably, as if his mother had been living a double life, and he’d not known about it.

            Pursing his lips, Sherlock swept his fingers over the leather cover of the book, supple and smooth despite its ignored and uncared for state in the cellar of the other house. Turning it on its side, he made a note of the fact that there was no lettering on the spine to indicate what was held inside of the pages, or what the words on the inside might say. Placing it back in its rightful position on its back, the young Holmes boy smoothed the side of his thumb down the crease of the space where the spine met the cover, worn with time and obviously looked into often, but not used so much as to expand the pages with knowledge passed down from time. It was a book well loved, but only by one person; his mother? Sherlock’s hope flared in his chest, sinful and dangerous in its purity; his mother left him something. Something that Mycroft obviously wasn’t important enough to tell. Igniting his curiosity anew, Sherlock reached to pull the cover open, jumping at the sound of a whip crack of thunder. He looked to the right, where his window had been cleaned from the inside – Mrs. Hudson’s doing, surely – and the rain was washing away whatever residue dared to stay, no longer obscuring his view of the Strange House.

            The doors stood closed, held shut by John’s possibly demented hands while Sherlock’s heart pounded at the thought of the book in front of him. Dropping his gaze back to the book, the curly haired teen ran his tongue over his bottom lip, catching the skin of his lip between his teeth for a moment as he thought; perhaps what his mother did to help John was in the book as well. He said that the secret to his quick movements was inside the book, so why not tell a few others? No one in their right mind would have a book three inches thick in their lap and only write one secret inside of it; no, everyone would spill their secrets across the page in damning ink, too vain to use graphite while they were scribing their own fortunes and misfortunes with the much more permanent and regal turn of an ink pen.

            With a flicker of lightning outside the house, Sherlock slipped his forefinger under the thick cover of the book and pushed it back to reveal the first page.       Light script lined the top right corner of the first page, summing up every hope in the detectives mind with small, punctuated dots and sweeping arcs along each rounded letter.

_\-- Property of Danabell Holmes_

            Like the stars shivering in the sky, their beauty tragically sound, Sherlock’s lips trembled at the sight; his mother had owned this book. Her writing, so uniquely her own it could be a font found in any calligraphy kit, was scrawled over the top of the page effortlessly. Biting his bottom lip with a smile, Sherlock pressed his fingertips over the impression of his mother’s name, passing the pads of his fingers over the slight indentation that the pen made on the surface of the paper, only to catch the corner of the page under his hand and turn it ever so delicately to the next page.

_Mycroft looks more and more like his father every day._

            Sitting back and knitting his brows in thought, Sherlock blinked hard; the beginning was so abrupt, he hadn’t expected it. But, there it was, in black and white; Mycroft’s name was the first thing written in the book. A frown clouded the normally indifferent plane of the teens’ face, but he ruffled himself back into place with a simple conclusion: he must’ve not been born when the book had first been written in. Nodding to himself as if to confirm his own skeptic thought, Sherlock turned his eyes back to the page.

_Mycroft looks more and more like his father every day. He’s begun to speak now, using clear tone and excellent diction. I think that it’s because he wants his father to notice him._

Sherlock scoffed at that; their father never noticed anything if it didn’t have to do with his work or the other women he involved himself with. Skimming his eyes over the page, the enjoyment of Mycroft’s ignored time with Father withered into something oft compared with contempt; Sherlock knew his brother was a pompous windbag, but even he wasn’t deserving of such treatment. There were things on this page that he never knew Mycroft felt, things he never knew that Mycroft said, and things he’d never dared assume Mycroft experienced.

_He tried to build a castle with the building blocks I’d ordered for him today. We were in the garden, and I was painting. Mycroft enjoys playing with his blocks, he says it helps him think; I can only imagine what must go on in that racing mind of his. But, his father came onto the terrace and began to shout about the mess he’d made. Mycroft cried today; it was the first time I’ve ever seen him cry._

            This statement made Sherlock pause; babies cried all the time. There were countless of books and television shows that depicted the parents of a child waking in the middle of the night to console a screaming child. How could this have been the first time his mother had ever seen his brother cry? Placing his fingers under the line that he was reading, he traced out the line of thought that had fallen from his mothers’ mind into the book.

            _I took him back to his room, and rocked back and forth in his favorite rocking chair. He was quiet, but I have a feeling that it was more out of fear than contentment. I hope his temperament is different from his fathers’. A young boy like him shouldn’t try to live up to a father like that. I told him so, but he didn’t look at me. He said he liked my hair, and asked if his little brother would have hair like mine. I told him yes, and I hope it’s true._

_I hope that my son looks nothing like his father. Mycroft is cursed by his father’s appearance, and I pray to my brothers and sisters that my own child might not be burdened by such a heavy cross._

It made sense, Sherlock realized; all of the times that he’d been playing with Mycroft and his mother would watch them with an oddly forlorn gaze. Why Mycroft always held himself at bay with his feelings towards their mother; it all made sense, now that he thought about it. Not a thing had been passed down from Danabell’s appearance to Mycroft while everything seemed to have been cut and pasted into Sherlock. He didn’t look anything like their mother, but at the same time, he had watery green eyes that didn’t belong to their mothers’ stormy grey or their fathers’ nondescript muddy brown.

            _Even though he isn’t truly my son, I vow here and now that he will be loved like he is my own, given that his father, Henry, will do nothing to care for him. I will love him more than his true mother and father combined; he will be my son, and I will bless him with dreams sweet enough to taste. As his mother, it is the least I can do._

Blurred lines made up the journey down the hallway and past Mycroft in the drawing room – quiet and calm now that his minions had stopped meddling in affairs that ought not be meddled in. How could Mycroft, his own brother – half-brother, Sherlock corrected himself – not tell him that their mother wasn’t _their_ mother? It explained the distant, cool exterior that Mycroft had always graced him with, but it all seemed too farfetched. Pushing the kitchen doors open, the detective noticed Mrs. Hudson busying herself with a broth of some sort on the stove. When he slammed the book down on the counter to her right, she gasped, jumping in place and holding a hand over her heart; he only felt remorseful for a moment, and his frustration was renewed as she turned to look at him with a socked expression, as if she wasn’t to blame.

“Sherlock! You could at least,”

“How did you know?” He demanded. The landlady pursed her lips in a thin line, shaking her head to a fro slowly as if to calm the fiery teen. Giving a wild gesture to the side door, he tried once more to gain some sort of sense out of the woman. “How did you know that he was there? Who is he? How did he get this book?”

            Mrs. Hudson seemed to become more shaken up with the extra questions, and she made no move to answer as the young Holmes scowled and drew in deep breaths to calm himself. It was outrageous, the idea of something like this being true; it made all the sense in the world, but how could he have not seen it? Looking back, it was obvious, but how could he have not seen it in the first place? Pushing the heel of his hand through his hair, Sherlock glared at the leather book with burning eyes, hoping that it would burst to flames and be nothing but a lie made of smoky ashes.

            The hands of the landlady, thin and delicate with age, moved from the handle of the stirring spoon above the pot on the stove to drum her fingers on the cover of the closed book. Raising his eyebrows in an agitated manner, Sherlock planted his right palm atop the linoleum kitchen counter and leaned his weight into it, cocking his head to the side as if to ask ‘what now?’ to the shaken woman.

“Your mother told me to visit that house every month, just to check up on it.” Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a smile that suggested that he was somehow being childish. “I met John on my first visit after her passing. He must’ve frightened you, because I know that he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

            Gritting his teeth, Sherlock pulled open the book once more, flipping past the first three pages that he had read and moving his eyes down the third paragraph on the page. His name wasn’t anywhere on the page, so he simply resorted to flipping past pages until he saw the lovely curve of his mother penmanship over his name. Like Mycroft, his name seemed like an introduction to a small anecdote.

_Sherlock and I were allowed home from the hospital today, and it seems that he dreams just like me. No doubt that with time, he’ll grow to be able to control such innocent dreams. When he’s awake, he’s capable of knowing the difference between Mycroft and his father. It’s obvious with the way he smiles at his older brother._

            Mrs. Hudson was saying something, mumbling about how Sherlock shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but the young Holmes was busy turning the thick linen pages. There was a small telling of Sherlock’s first words, how he asked to be read a novel for bedtime instead of picture books using multisyllabic words and an innocent smile. Another three pages described Sherlock playing with Mycroft in the forest behind the Summer Estate for several weeks, each account punctuated with dates to accompany paragraphs with days. Scanning the pages again, this time for John’s name, Sherlock absorbed as much of his mothers’ memories as he could; the diary seemed to only recall days at the Summer Estate, giving it a good reason to stay on the grounds. Pausing at the sight of _John_ , Sherlock held his breath and backtracked up the page to start at the beginning of John’s story, finally noting that Mrs. Hudson was no longer speaking, but waiting to hear what the detective was searching for.

_I searched the forest behind the Estate for a Dream that escaped Sherlock’s nightmares today. It was a man, strange and dart; fitting for a young child’s fearful dream. But, he shouldn’t have been brought into the world, not while Sherlock is so young. To keep his power under control, I’ve been working with the idea of allowing Mycroft to tutor him on scientific theories; with a heightened understanding of science, the idea of Gods and Goddesses will soon fade from his mind. Perhaps even his dreams will become nothing more than just imagination._

_I found the dream terrorizing the Sentries I have stationed around the borders of the grounds, but there was one extra Sentry that I have no recollection of Claiming. It seems he was only recently brought into the world, young and unsure of what to do in the face of a threat such as a rogue dream._

_Keeping the dream away from the boy, I made sure that the man served his way back to the scattered dreams that he came from. The boy is now in my debt, and takes his role as a Claimed Sentry very seriously; he’s never had a human name before. I know that he’s a Sol Vigilis, and his kind can be very rare in this country. I’ll keep an eye on him for now, but I feel that he will do very well as a Sentry for Sherlock one day; I named him John._

            Closing the book without batting an eyelash at the discovery, Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a tight-lipped smile. It was impossible. His mother wrote about dreams coming to life, guards posted at the edge of the Estate, and John being one of those guards no less. It was blatant insanity, but he knew that his mother wasn’t insane. Sherlock swallowed a thick mouthful of oily saliva, struggling not to feel nauseous at the idea of his mother being an escaped mental patient that had stolen Mycroft from his real mother. His lips twitched uncomfortably around his smile, and he swept the book off of the counter, tucking it beneath his arm as he headed for the door with quick, efficient steps.

“Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”

            The landlady sighed; it was quiet enough to assume she wasn’t upset, but loud enough for Sherlock to note the dark undertone of her voice creeping in to voice its disapproval. His pace didn’t slow as he picked past the door and made his way down the hall, pursued by the nervous echo of Mrs. Hudson’s lilting soprano emanating from the kitchen doorway.

“You haven’t even had dinner, Sherlock.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

 

+++++

 

“Good morning, Sherlock.”

            Mycroft’s smudgy tones greeted Sherlock as he picked his way back into the kitchen the next morning, heavy limbed with late reading well through the midnight hour and the leather-bound diary in hand. He grumbled a half-hearted insult in return, but he couldn’t feel the victorious weight of it on his tongue; he needed to see John again. He wanted the ‘Sentry’ to prove that he was in fact what his mother called him. Shuffling past Mycroft, who was situated at the head of the table in the kitchen with his newspaper held up like a shield before his face as if to block any more of Sherlock’s weight jokes, Sherlock settled the book on the kitchen countertop as he reached for a coffee mug on the shelf above the coffee maker.

            Mrs. Hudson eyed him inconspicuously from over the ridge of her teacup, and he sent her a gravely ‘good morning’ while she smiled and nodded slightly. Blinking hard, Sherlock blindly poured himself a cup of coffee; in the diary, his mother had written seventy-four pages before cutting off the day before she died. Moving back to the beginning, he had read each day’s story, spread out over eight summers; one before he was born, and the rest describing each warm season he spent with his mother and brother in the Estate. As the entries went on, they shared more space with John rather than focus solely on Sherlock and Mycroft alone. According to his mother, John was some sort of magical protection against ‘higher powers’; his mother was supposed to be a Goddess herself, but she only spoke of dreams, and Sherlock had been Googling different Gods, Roman and Greek alike only to find that there was a God that rode a chariot to bring the night, and therefore, dreams. His mother, a Goddess of dreams, and John, the Sol Vigilis, were nowhere to be found in historic lore.

            Swallowing the coffee that had cooled long before he had even entered the kitchen, Sherlock held the cup in his left hand while he smoothed his right hand down the front of his dark cerulean shirt, finding that in his daze he’d forgotten to button in one spot. He flicked the button through its designated hole, Sherlock swallowed mouthful after mouthful of coffee, pouring himself another cup as Mrs. Hudson watched him with raised eyebrows.

“Isn’t it a bit early for you to be drinking all of that coffee? You’ll need to save it if you’re going to make it last all week until Mrs. Hudson goes shopping.”

            Sherlock licked his lips as a stray bead of coffee dribbled down his chin, escaping over the rim of his mug and spilling down over the crest of his lips in pursuit of his shirt collar. Swiping his thumb over the bead of coffee to catch it, he set down his mug and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt sleeves whilst snapping at his brother.

“Don’t you have a government to run Mycroft? No doubt there’s someone else whose life you could be ruining right now.”

“And aren’t you lucky that I have nowhere else to be?”

            Rolling his eyes, Sherlock wondered if this is what his mother predicted when she brought Mycroft home whilst she was pregnant with another child. Perhaps she envisioned them getting along better, considering they both had a compassionate mother to guide them in the arts of loving each other. Then again, Sherlock thought with a smile, she would merely laugh when they would make fun of each other, holding them close when insults became too sharp and giving a gentle warning of ‘that’s enough, boys’ before the fight was halted, and the topic changed. Biting at the corners of his smile, Sherlock slid the book off of the corner and advanced toward the side door, thankful that it wasn’t raining this morning; his coat was still heavy with weight of last nights’ rain.

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

            There was a loud squawk of Mrs. Hudson’s protest to his language and the loud flutter of thin paper as Mycroft pulled the newspaper taut in front of his face again – a useless shield against his younger brother once more – while Sherlock shut the door, and he quickly carried on across the lush, dew kissed grass of the grounds before the landlady could think to order him back to apologize to his brother; half-brother, he corrected himself. Ducking below the sleepy branches of a tree that marked the end of the Summer Estate and the beginning of the Strange House, Sherlock tapped his thumb against the cover of the book in his hand absently. Would John be there still, or would he be gone in fear that Sherlock wouldn’t return?

            From what Danabell had written about the Sentry, John was a dependable young man, even when he was nothing but a young child. She often wrote that she hoped he would help Sherlock one day, and that he would work to become a valuable teacher for her youngest son. This thought made butterflies take up flight in his stomach; if his mother wasn’t mad, which he was quite sure that she wasn’t, what kind of things could John teach him about his mother? What could someone like John, a Sentry never heard of before, tell him about the side of his mother he never knew?

            Reaching the front door of the Strange House, Sherlock felt a leaden hammer of realization slam into his gut; the key to the house was still in his coat pocket. Giving the handle of the door an experimental tug, his heart dropped at the sensation of the door catching on a thick deadbolt: locked. Sherlock sighed; he didn’t want to go back to the house and face Mrs. Hudson scolding him, but he didn’t want to just sit outside the house and hope that John would see him through one of the windows. Swinging the book back and forth along his side, Sherlock paced in front of the door for a moment; John said he’d leave if he didn’t take the book, but he’d taken the book, therefore, John would have to be there. It was only logical. If only everything in his mothers’ diary could follow the laws of logic as well. Sucking in a breath of crisp morning air, Sherlock reached forward and gripped the brass knocker that was nestled against the heavy wooden door, lifting it only an inch before pushing it down to clatter against the entrance with a hollow scraping sound.

            Not even the trees were allowed to bend with the wind before there was a sound echoing from inside the house; Sherlock knew how to deduce such sounds. Thuds that resembled walking down stairs but not enough to indicate that John had been upstairs; he had been sitting on the stairs, waiting for something; most likely waiting for Sherlock. Leaning toward the door, Sherlock could hear easy footsteps, slow and paced as if John half expected that it wasn’t Sherlock, but a child from the town just here to play a prank or fundraise for a school activity. Easing back to stand up straight, Sherlock heard the dull, resonant tone of the bolt being turned, and the latch unhooked. Opening the door only a few inches, John allowed the detective to see only a few inches of his sun kissed skin; it was enough to see his reaction.

            John looked up at him with his electric blue eyes, seemingly bewildered at the fact that he had come back the next day. Sherlock allowed himself to be caught up in those eyes, watchet painted circles of awed wonder; marveling at the sight of the young Holmes with open, unabashed enthrallment. Pushing the door open further, John pushed his tanned fingers through his flaxen hair, taking a deep breath as he looked Sherlock up and down as if to examine the boy.

“You came back.”

            It was a statement, Sherlock knew; but it was almost a breathless, disbelieving realization that tumbled from the blondes’ lips, having less to do with stating the obvious and more to do with assuring that he himself understood that Sherlock was indeed standing before him. Giving the ‘Sentry’ a stiff nod, Sherlock gave a questioning gesture to the inside of the Strange House, slipping inside when John moved out of the way. It was just as empty as he had left it the day before; no furniture, no lights, and no one besides the two teens inhabiting the interior. John left the door ajar, allowing the slightly fogged sunlight of eight o’clock spill through the doorway into the entrance of the house, illuminating Sherlock in his brooding glory.

            Watching John carefully, Sherlock lifted the book from his side to hold it out for him to see, raising his eyebrows as John looked from him to the book and back to him; he had no idea what Sherlock wanted. The blonde bit his bottom lip, raising his eyebrows as well as a slight indication that he was waiting for something to happen; Sherlock sighed.

“What is this?”

            John’s lips parted around a reply quickly, but he stopped himself halfway through creating the sound, halting the words in his throat with a puzzled glance. He took in a deep breath, crossed his white clad arms over his chest – the same white clothing from yesterday; Sherlock doubted he owned anything else – and pursed his lips before giving a slow answer.

“It’s… well, it’s a book?”

“Yes, I know that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, shaking the book to and fro before bringing it close to himself so that he could indicate pointedly to the cover. “I want to know what it _means_.” John’s eyebrows drew down into a thoughtful frown, and his eyes fell to the floor before lifting back up slowly to watch the young Holmes. “This is my mothers’ writing, and I know that; but I want to know if it’s true. Is it a diary of real events and stories, or is it fiction? I want to know what it is.”

            With a breath, John gave Sherlock a blank stare before looking away, nodding for a moment while he searched for the right thing to say. He watched the smooth floorboards beneath his feet as if they’d tell him what to say, but nothing magical or supernatural occurred; he merely lifted his gaze to Sherlock’s eyes and nodded again.

“It’s true... that was your mothers’ diary.” John moved forward to reach out to the Holmes boy; Sherlock didn’t back away now. He trusted his mothers’ judgment of the blonde, and when he placed his hand atop the book cover, Sherlock could have almost felt the sentiment leaking out of the Sentry. “Everything she wrote is true. She wasn’t a liar; she liked things that were real, not things that gave false truths.”

            Sherlock shook his head, pulling the book out from underneath John’s hand and flicking it open to show what he was thinking. He pointed out the word ‘dream’ several times, letting the pages flutter through his fingers as he made his point.

“She kept writing about dreams; dreams aren’t real. They’re imagination.”

“Are thoughts real?” John countered, holding out a hand to stop the page turns, and indicating to his head with his index finger. “If dreams aren’t real, neither are thoughts. They’re both created with the mind and soul alike, brought to life by our hearts. Dreams are emotions that are depicted with images instead of physical stimulations; you can’t reach out and touch them, some people can’t even remember them when they wake up, but you can _feel_ it. They are very real.”

            Licking his lips, Sherlock turned away from John, wresting the book from his golden hands and huffing defiantly. He wanted proof; physical evidence that showed his mother wasn’t insane, and that everything written in her diary was true. He wanted to believe John, and more than anything, he wanted to believe his mother. Turning his gaze back onto John, he lifted his chin to an angle that suggested confidence and arrogance; the blonde didn’t react beyond giving him one of his signature smiles.

“In the book, she said you’re a Sol Vigilis; what does that mean?”

            John nodded fervently, a smile blooming over his face as if this was one of his favorite things to talk about. Sherlock blinked a few times, digesting the reaction displayed before him with avid interest.  John wanted to prove himself, and Sherlock was eager to know what that meant. Using his hands, John figurative split the title into two parts.

“It’s derived from Latin; Sol, meaning the sun, and Vigilis, meaning sentry.”

“So,” Sherlock made a ‘hurry up’ gesture with a flick of his wrist before guessing at what John was supposed to be explaining. “You guard the sun?”

            John’s laughter lit up the room more than the light from outside did, and the otherworldly glow he had produced last night returned full-force. Xanthic tones of light yellow pitched themselves across the walls and set the room in a kinder tone of enlightenment; Sherlock watched with his mouth agape, unbothered by the fact that he was being rude. This was not his imagination; John was certainly something else.

“No, Sentries protect the Gods, or in my case, a Deity. That would be you.” John pointed at Sherlock as if to further assure the Holmes that he was indeed important. “Being a Sol Sentry just describes what kind of Sentry I am, just like how medical professionals are split into categories like doctors and nurses, and then into smaller subcategories like a cardiothoracic surgeon or a nurse practitioner.”

            Sherlock swallowed around the information, not listening as John went on to mutter about different people in the medical staff while he thought. He moved to the staircase situated on the right side of the entrance, sitting down on the third step and placing the book next to himself before steepling his fingers in front of his lips. John padded over to stand next to the railing, scrunching up his bare toes against the smooth wood floor before relaxing them again as he watched Sherlock quietly.

“My mother is a Goddess.”

John nodded slowly, murmuring a hardly audible: “Yes.”

“That means I would be… I’m half-god. A demigod, some would say.”

Giving Sherlock another nod, John licked his lips before giving a loose shrug, as if the whole thing didn’t really matter, and this conversation was just a means to an end.

“Well, we don’t really use the term ‘demigod’. You would be called a Deity; almost a god, but not quite.”

            Nodding to himself now, Sherlock closed his eyes and took slow, calculated breaths; John had glowed like a radioactive science experiment, and moved faster than he could imagine. Obviously abnormal. His mother had written about him being different, and that Sherlock himself was different; a boy with powers beyond what a normal ‘Deity’ should be capable of. She wrote that he was her only true son, and John was left in this house to teach him things about becoming his mothers’ son to the fullest extent. If what she wrote about John was true, then the rest of it should have been, as well. Opening his eyes, Sherlock settled a sharp gaze on John shattering an illusion of frustration and replacing it with silken and tense interest.

“You are supposed to teach me; show me how to be a Deity.”

            Crouching down to kneel on the first step of the staircase, John looked up at Sherlock with a smile full of earnest excitement; this was what he’d been waiting for. He had been waiting for Sherlock to come through the door and demand to be taught, he had been waiting alone for Danabell’s son to need his protection and give him something to consume his time. Sherlock had been waiting as well, building a castle of boredom and disinterest out of crystallized sugar water; sharp to the touch but unsatisfyingly breakable. John had marched into his mind and kicked the castle in, shattering it into thousands of beautiful, starburst fragments of sweet emotion, waiting to be built into something new and fantastic.

“I’ve been waiting for ten years to teach you.”


	5. Learning

Early evening stained the sky an embarrassed pink, covering a once blue canvas in thick running visions of orange and red, reaching down to the edge of the painting; the edge of the world, it would seem. Sherlock sat on the steps of the Strange House, having been ordered home by John over four hours ago, he couldn’t bring himself to leave, and walk the thirty meters back to the Summer Estate. Not yet; not when he had so much to learn, and countless years to catch up on.

John wanted him to go home and rest; Sherlock had let out a long yawn just as John was about to explain how to fill up his senses and release his power. John had smiled in a kind way; a peaceful way; a way that held no malice, but instead held a stretch of regret. ‘Being tired won’t do you any good,’ he had scolded, wrapping his arms about his torso as if to hold himself together while he spoke through a thin smile. ‘Come back tomorrow, when you’ve actually slept the whole night through’. Sherlock pursed his lips, and casted a mournful glance over his shoulder at the solid oak doors. He had thought more than once about turning around and merely striding into the entrance with demands to be taught, tired or awake, but these ideas soon withered beneath doubt; what if he couldn’t access the strength he needed with a sleep addled mind?

Turning away from the door, Sherlock monitored the setting sun with sluggish thoughts of going back home. Home; back to Mycroft and his piercing gaze that left him bristling, back to Mrs. Hudson and her fretful hums which caused him to flinch and rethink his actions. The Deity could stubbornly choose to remain. Here, at the Strange House with John in all his curiosity invoking wonder; John, the only person who had ever bothered to watch Sherlock as he moved and listen as he spoke; John who smiled at him despite his distrust, and grew concerned over his health when he never bothered to care about it. No one had bothered to do that after Mummy died, not even his father. John was different; not quite a friend, but more than an acquaintance. A companion that hadn’t quite been with him long enough to become closer; but time would change that wouldn’t it? They would become close if enough time passed; if he allowed it to pass. John would become one of the only people he could call a friend, and he would be proud if John called him a friend as well. But, what if John only wanted to appease his mothers’ last wish, and didn’t care about Sherlock at all?

Sucking in a short breath, Sherlock’s eyes widened at a tugging sensation just beneath his ribcage; like a fisherman had cast a line and the hook, larger than it should be, caught between his lungs and jerked up as the hook grabbed ahold of him. His hand flew to his breast, grasping at the fabric of his shirt as if to somehow soothe the discomfort, but the sensation had already been assuaged. Hoping the panic of his heart racing and his throat constricting were only a figment of his imagination, Sherlock swallowed a gasp and stood up from the step. Thinking about John had gotten him all worked up; Mummy had always said that if he let himself get too caught up in a troublesome thought, he heart would react in kind. Three breaths followed that thought, each one longer than the last as his body struggled to make up for its misbehavior and calm his stuttering heart with heavy doses of oxygen and reduced amounts of movement.

Deciding then and there that John would not allow him back into the Strange  House, Sherlock stuffed his hands into the smooth pockets of his black jeans and began the short trek back to the Estate. It seemed much simpler now that he wasn’t quite so desperate to be taught, and more desperate to get away from the cause of his heart palpitations. Surely, John had done something within the confines of the Strange House; something strange and impossible to give Sherlock the final push to go home. Yes, that was how it happened.

“Sherlock, there you are.”

Mrs. Hudson stated the obvious as Sherlock shut the green side door in his wake, sliding the soles of his shoes against the doormat to remove minute traces of the grass on its surface. She was busy at the sink, dipping her hands beneath soapy dishwater to scrub at the remnants of lunch and possibly dinner. He had been gone a while; perhaps he should eat something. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock caught hints of spices in his nostrils, and narrowing his eyes he could spot red sauce caught on the landlady’s wrist. Some kind of pasta, then. Sherlock scowled at the hardwood floors; his mother had made the best pasta when he was younger, and he didn’t feel like eating Mrs. Hudson’s; it wouldn’t be as good.

“Come here, and help me with the dishes?”

She asked it as a question, but Sherlock was sure there was an underlying tone of order beneath it, daring him to defy her. Pushing his coat off of his shoulders, Sherlock set it atop the island that stood amid the center of the kitchen, and rolled up the sleeves of his navy blue shirt and snagged a towel from the drying rack where the wet dishes were being stowed. Plucking a clean bowl from the plastic rack, Sherlock worked the towel over the small drops of water as Mrs. Hudson carried on scrubbing at a large metal pot that no doubt had been used to boil the pasta. Biting his lip, Sherlock waited for a few long minutes for Mrs. Hudson to say something, anything, to fill up the silence that was currently settling a thick blanket of tension over their heads.

"Mrs. Hudson," The landlady hummed out a questioning tone, and Sherlock took this as an invitation to continue. "I want to apologize for my outburst last evening."

She hummed again, making Sherlock cringe internally at her cold shoulder. He’d only been at the Summer Estate a grand total of two days, and he already knew that the landlady was normally much more sociable that she was letting on. if he wanted to continue with his little escapades to the Strange House, he’d need her on his side, and at the moment, his chances of scooting away with her help were slim at best. Setting the dry bowl on the smooth countertop and reaching for a new dish to dry, he tried once more.

"I'm sorry I missed lunch.” The sloshing of water in the sink answered him. "I'm sure it was very good."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed, tilting up her chin at the week attempt to compliment her with vague disappointment. A smile lingered on those lips though, so Sherlock didn’t dare count it as a failure to sooth her frayed patience.

“Of course it was good,” She boasted, presenting him with another dish when he had finished with the one in his hands. “I made it.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a hint of a smile sure to put the woman at ease, hearing Mrs. Hudson giggle to herself for a moment before she resumed her scrubbing. Deeming himself cleared of any wrongdoing, Sherlock nodded to himself, letting his mind wander to more relevant topics while the landlady spoke in lazy circles about the evening that he'd missed. He wanted to go back and see what John meant by clearing his senses of distractions to be able to focus; Mycroft had been looking for him -- obviously his brother had been just distracted enough by his disappearance to tuck his chair into the table crooked. He wanted to know more about how John stayed in the Strange House after his mother died; the pasta sauce Mrs. Hudson made had been burned on the bottom of the pan -- clearly, since the kitchen still smelled faintly of overcooked tomatoes. He wanted to go into his room and re-read his mother's’ old diary and search for clues that may tell him how to achieve whatever clear senses John didn’t finish explaining within the time he was still inside the Strange House; Mrs. Hudson was mumbling now, too quiet to hear under the unbearable silence of what he didn’t know.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock huffed, noting how the woman paused her monologue to give the teen a sideways glance over the silvery dishwater. “Do you know how long John has been in that house? Has he really been there for ten years?”

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, pulling the stopper from the bottom of the sink and watching the bubbly water recede into the drain with a vague expression. Her brow creased, as if recalling the years was a difficult task that she should have been allowed time to prepare for, then smoothed with the expulsion of air from her lungs in a sigh.

“I haven’t quite figured that out myself; the house was built about twelve… no, thirteen years ago, by your mother’s request. I suppose John could’ve been there that whole time, waiting after your  mother passed on.” Mrs. Hudson never looked at Sherlock, regarding the white wall of the kitchen in front of her with a far-off look. “John opened the door to the house only a few times, that poor thing…” She paused, and Sherlock saw it -- a glimmer, perhaps even a full flicker -- of sentiment linger in her bright irises before she turned to Sherlock with a more solid look of inquisition. “But, I’m glad he let you in. He won’t be alone anymore; neither of you will.”

Sherlock sniffed, handing Mrs. Hudson the dish towel to dry her hands while his nose wrinkled in distaste; he wasn’t alone. He always had Mycroft, and that meant he wasn’t _allowed_ to be alone. He never felt particularly lonely, like an average person like John might feel -- perhaps Sentries felt differently? -- and he had no problem with being left alone with his thoughts.

“I like being alone,” He stated, as if to solidify the fact that he didn’t mind. Mrs. Hudson cast him a curved smile with her eyes glittering with the promise of gossip. “I don’t mind being alone. I’m not like John.”

“Oh no, dear.” Mrs. Hudson moved to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk, cutting up her thought and making the young Holmes wait for her to finish. She handed him the glass, and he took a mild sip, enjoying the creamy taste on his tongue before she finished smugly. “No one is like John.”

Humming to himself, Sherlock nodded with a roll of his eyes; of course no one was like John. He wasn’t even human, to begin with. Taking slow sips of the milk placed before him, Sherlock thought of the light that John seemed to emit whenever he was happy or excited; when he’d first come to the Strange House, the eerie shine had seemed like an otherworldly expression, but in Mummy’s diary, it was a natural function for John. There were passages -- brief passages, much to Sherlock’s dismay the previous night -- that spoke of the light as a reflection of John’s soul itself.

“I’m going to my room.”

Mrs. Hudson’s smile changed into something a bit softer, and her hands fluttered over the countertop for a moment, looking for a good deed to do while Sherlock left. As he took another sip of milk and brought the cup with him, he picked his coat up off of the kitchen island and headed for the hallway, hearing her call to him through the kitchen door.

“Would you like me to bring something for you to eat?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Taking small swallows of milk, Sherlock padded back to his room slowly, taking his time with his trek and admiring his mother’s paintings that hung proudly about the estate. Flicking that lightswitch in his room, Sherlock made sure that his coat was placed on a hanger once more, and his cup was lightly set atop the sill of the window next to his bed. Night was quickly advancing, and Sherlock found himself settling atop his blankets and flipping open the diary that he’d left there hours before, weary of a night without sleep but raring to feel the sensation of effortless strength that his mother spoke of, creating dreams and destroying them easily.

He returned to the paragraphs that told of John’s light and strength, not wanting to wait until the next morning for facts from the Sentry himself and favoring the easier method of collecting his own clues. Sherlock had a sharp memory, and could remember the pages that held John’s little secrets with a flicker of his eyes from one page to the next.

_John rises and falls with the sun, I’ve noticed._

    Sherlock pursed his lips, and decided to ask John about that later; did he gain his strength from the sun? Is that why the house always seemed so lost in the night; he’d noticed the grim air exerted by the building when he’d first gone there, but now with John’s bubbly personality inside, he couldn’t help but want more solid facts. If he gained his energy from the sun, how did the rainy days affect him? Given the fact that he’d been excited enough with Sherlock being in the Strange House, the idea of John’s energy or mood failing with a cloud covered sun seemed a bit farfetched. He returned to the text.

_He’s just a child, and I understand that his heart is soaring with the wonders he sees each day. John reminds me of Sherlock in this way. I only hope that John can help Sherlock in a way that I can’t, showing him what I’m required by oath to keep hidden._

Another interesting point Sherlock wanted to bring up. Sherlock bit his lip, admiring the crackle of sharp fire in his mind, sure and heady in its wonder; there was so much left to the imagination, and so much that could be nailed down to scientific fact. John could answer so many questions, but he had shooed the curly haired teen out of the Strange House before any could be properly asked or answered. Sherlock turned to a new page.

_John has been shining brighter now that I tell him stories of my sons. I wish he could see it, my family. I wish I could show him. But for now, I know that it’s best to let him marvel at the stories of two young boys playing in the grassy yard and climbing trees when I’ve told them not to. Perhaps it’s best to let John imagine that kind of joy in his dreams, instead of condemning him to possible disappointment when I tell him once more that my sons can know nothing of his true nature. For now, I’ll let him shine with the joy of a thousand happy dreams, and maybe that --_

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up from the pages, and he sat up straighter on his bed when he noted the ramrod unmoving figure of his brother in the doorway. His fingers slipped over the blankets that warmed up with his body heat to sit atop the page he was reading while his thumb pushed the cover up and over his hand, partially hiding the contents from Mycroft. The skin of his fingers was pinched, but he made no move to remove them; he was busy watching his brother who slunk into his room slowly, knowing that he was unwanted. Their eyes exchanged blows like two fencers striking at each other with their tin foils, parrying and blocking in turn, only to blink and reset the game. Mycroft’s foil was the first to guard as he spoke.

“We missed you at lunch.” Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked as his brother mildly glanced at the dark coat in his closet, heavy with the rain of last night and warm with the light of the setting sun that he sat through, before returning in a parry of his foil as Sherlock took a step back in defense. “And dinner.”

“Well,” Sherlock’s foil swept to the side, and so did his body, leaning to the right and keeping his eyes on Mycroft’s until he sat straight with a thoughtful sigh. “I was busy.”

The duel continued with the exasperated smile of his brother, ringing with agitation and ruffled feathers until his brother cocked his head to the side and mildly swept his hands into the pockets of his neatly pressed suit. His foil was raised and poised to strike, and Sherlock pivoted his own foil, feeling fight or flight senses send out a trembling alarm in his mind as he did; dangerous and in danger at the same time.

“Too busy to come home?” The strike Sherlock had been waiting for came, quick and sharp in the form of a foil shaped question: “Whatever were you doing to make you so busy, I wonder?”

Raising a prepared foil in defense, Sherlock felt his mind engage in the fight, set on defending the secret of Mummy’s diary and John’s existence rather than himself. He guarded from the blow with an easy lie, and parried with his own retort.

“I was taking a walk. Mrs. Hudson has offered to bring me something to eat.”

“Walking?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t buy it; he didn’t have to. He just didn’t need to know where Sherlock had walked to or who he spoke with; Mycroft wasn’t really worth a good lie at the moment. If he needed to, he would lie about John with ten times more vigor; he just wasn’t interested at the moment. His brothers’ eyebrows descended on his expression like a rain cloud over London, and Sherlock watched him press his lips together hard enough that all of the color disappeared from them while he crossed his arms over his chest.

“For hours?”

“Of course.”

“Impossible.”

Raising his eyebrows to inspire mock surprise, Sherlock leaned forward to inspire a let down of his guard. Mycroft didn’t fall for it, nor did he rush in to take advantage of it; not so quickly, it seemed.

“Is it?”

“Yoo-hoo, boys!”

Mrs. Hudson tiptoed into the room with a plate of biscuits with a small bowl of honey on the side of the plate, glancing meaningfully from Mycroft to Sherlock as both fell silent. She gave Sherlock a comment about how leaning forward like he was would ruin his posture, and he slowly sat up, smiling slyly at his brother while she handed him the plate. Turning to the side for only a moment, Sherlock set the plate next to the book so that he could eat while he read before dragging Mrs. Hudson into the predicament.

“Is it impossible that I’ve been out for a walk, Mrs. Hudson?”

The landlady looked at him from the bedroom doorway, surprised by the sudden question and about to answer before Mycroft intercepted the attempt. He held his foil, sharpened anew by flaring impatience into a steel lance, to Sherlock’s face while the younger Holmes sat back innocently.

“You would be bored to tears, Sherlock. You couldn’t have been out for a walk for so long.”

“Well,” Sherlock plucked a biscuit from the plate with his hand that wasn’t holding his place in the diary and dipped the round edge in the honey, letting it drip before bringing it up to his lips. “What do you think I was doing, Mycroft?”

He took a bite out of the biscuit, and Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh as she shook her head, disapproving, but smiling all the same. Mycroft’s lips were a line, tight and sealed as he glared for a moment before turning and leaving the room as easily as he had entered it. Mrs. Hudson followed, ordering Sherlock not to spill honey on the blankets as she closed his door behind herself. Letting the book fall open again, Sherlock dipped the sweet biscuit into the impossibly sugary honey and pushing more of the bread into his mouth as he finished the final sentence of the paragraph he’d been reading.

_For now, I’ll let him shine with the joy of a thousand happy dreams, and maybe that will be enough. At least until he’s able to walk side by side with my son, without a mask and without fear._

 

+++++

 

“Clear your thoughts, Sherlock. Stop trying to cut it down and decipher a meaning to it.”

Sherlock began to notice -- after two days of being told the same hint which had just delivered once more -- that John liked to smile when he was tired. It wasn’t a smile that was presented to the world when being serious was just too much, it was simply a grin that held the weight of the world. Not that it mattered to Sherlock if John was tired or not, he was simply one to notice things like that, habits, quirks, patterns; Sherlock noticed it all.

This evening marked their third ‘teaching’ day, and with Sherlock’s deduction skills, he noted that when the sun began to fall, so did John’s stamina; in an odd way, it made sense to Sherlock. John was a Sol Sentry, therefore, Sherlock concluded that he must gain power from sunlight. The blonde was currently seated in a lax position against the stairs, resting his elbows back against the stair behind him, and his legs stretched out along the floor in his crisp white trousers, crossed at the ankle and swaying with the swing of his bare feet back and forth. His blue eyes traced Sherlock’s outline, taking in the tense muscles of the Holmes’ shoulders and the hard line of his legs as he stood at attention in the middle of the entryway.

“Relax, Sherlock.” Glancing at the upstairs window, Sherlock noted that the sky was being sprayed a flattering pink by a flustered sun, and John yawned. “It’ll come to you naturally.”

“John, do you draw your energy from the sun?”

A startled laugh burst from John’s lips, and the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders lifted as if swept away by the sound, as if the very vibration of laughter in the still summer air was enough to frighten away all work that may have been done. John’s sunny glow echoed around the room, tinting the red sunlight on the walls a friendlier orange. Lifting a quizzical eyebrow, Sherlock allowed his lips to kick up at the side in interest, wanting to seem good humored to John -- though he didn’t understand why he wanted to seem good humored. Probably an inlaid sense of social obligation that he hadn’t quite picked up on until spending time with John, if that made any sense -- he knew it didn’t.

“I… ha! No, no, I don’t.” Carding his fingers through his short blonde hair, John licked his lips, sending another round of his glow about the room in a running spin of heady happiness. “Though I suppose I’ve just gotten used to sleeping the time away without anything to do, I might be a bit inclined to go to sleep earlier.” The gaze that seemed to linger too much on the past settled on something far away, beyond the walls of the Strange House and too far for Sherlock to see. Evanescent thoughts skittered through the cerulean blue of John’s eyes, broken up with the hard blink of his eyes and pushed away with the shake of his head. “I’ll try to stay up later, if that’s what you want. It’s your power that we need to learn, after all.”

Sherlock shrugged, crouching down to let his outstretched fingers balance his weight against the ground while John’s feet continued their previous swaying, ticking back and forth like a metronome keeping time to a song that Sherlock couldn’t quite hear. He gave up on trying to make his racing mind settle down and instead settled down on the floor, letting his hands fall into his lap while he admired the sun reflecting off of John’s face; it wasn’t his face that caught his eye, but the colors that slid of the skin there from the newly uncovered windows -- uncovered by Sherlock’s request. Slow reds and fleeting yellows melted together to create a sleepy orange there, entertaining Sherlock whilst he stared.

John was someone he’d be interested in calling a friend. That thought nearly threatened to pause Sherlock’s thoughts that never wanted to stop, tripping over each detail of the sentence like a writing program that has loaded too many words and fonts to focus on the actual substance in the document. Sherlock knew that he’d never wanted friends -- he still qualified himself fine without them -- but with John, things were a bit less boring. John filled the vast emptiness that was the Summer Estate with light and curiosity, happy to spend time with Sherlock even if he was tired. Smiling at this information and promising to return to it soon, the young Deity turned his face up to look at John, who was still shining with upheld tranquility, and requested his assistance.

“John, show me how you do that.”

The blonde looked up from the smooth floorboards that he’d been regarding quietly and smiled quaintly. Sherlock could almost feel the confused fatigue linger in the air, put there by his own witty hand. He returned the smile with a smug twist; John liked it when he did that. It made his smile wider; more genuine.

“How I do what, Sherlock?”

“Show me how you glow like that, John. I want to see how you do it.”

This only seemed to confuse the Sentry even more, and Sherlock watched in bemused comfort at how John looked up to the ceiling, licked his lips, and then returned his gaze to Sherlock’s own eyes. The young Holmes was sure that it was like learning to ride a bike. He learned by watching Mycroft do it flawlessly; Sherlock just had to keep watching to get down every detail in his mind until it worked for him.

“You want me to… I’m sorry, I don’t really…”

“I want you to show me how it works, John. How you bring out that light of yours. That’s your power. If I see how you do it, then I’ll learn by proxy.”

“Ah.” John’s mouth turned down into a frown and he repeated himself. “Ah, alright. I think that makes sense. But it’s different for me, you know. I’m a Sentry, you’re a Deity… things may not happen the way you want them to, you know.”

“I know that. Just show me.”

It was quick; faster than Sherlock would’ve liked. John stood, and closed his eyes, erasing all of the light that had previously swathed him in warmth and leaving nothing but cool, dim light from the windows in its wake. There, amidst the calm and the quiet, came the light once more, radiating from each pore of John’s skin, every cell of his being, glowing. He was alight from the inside, just as his mother wrote. The sunlight from which John was born was in his very soul, and he was more than happy to show it to the world. His eyes opened once more to see an awestruck Deity sitting on the floor before him, his cupid bow shaped lips curving into a smile he would someday call ‘reckless’.

“Show me again.”


	6. Learn to Forgive and Forget

           The palms of Sherlock’s hands had done many things in the past; they had held Mummy’s hands, cuffed through his hair when he couldn’t quite think straight, and pushed Mycroft over in the sandbox as a child. With his hands, he held a French novel and read it aloud to his mother, wrote music for the violin and cello with Mycroft, and slapped Phillip Anderson in the middle of their Chemistry class. His fingers picked apart a remote control car when he was six, and read his late mothers diary at the age of seventeen. Even though he could do amazing things with the hands that guided him through his life with scolding fingers and spiteful jabs, he couldn’t manage to understand John’s instructions.

       He sat on the stairs of the Strange House, glaring down at his palms while John wandered around the second floor, pulling open the curtains that hung in front of the large windows and tying them back so that the early afternoon sunlight could grace the entirety of the entryway. Huffing for the umpteenth time in the past hour, Sherlock leaned back against the stairs, pressing his back uncomfortably against the edges of the steps and holding his hands up in the air.

“John, show me again.”

       Hearing the muffled resonance of John’s shimmering laughter, Sherlock’s mouth refused to remain a scowl, and tilted up at the edges to reveal a shadowy smile. It didn’t matter how frustrated he was with his learning; John’s laugh could always lighten the heavy mood that he presented to the world. It had been a week of John telling him to look inside himself for whatever power he could, then two more days of him trying to explain how it was done: that neither science nor logic had anything to do with it. John’s bare feet padded along the stretch of windows on the second floor, calling out from somewhere down the hall as he tied back another curtain.

“I’ll show you if you want, but it won’t really help you.”

       Pressing the heels of his hands to his closed eyes, Sherlock pursed his lips at John’s statement; he had made John repeat the process of showing his power several times over the first three days of teaching, but in the end, John insisted that Sentries and Deities were very different. Frowning slightly, Sherlock allowed his amusement with John’s laughter to fade into ignorant displeasure. John would close his eyes and shine with his ethereal glow as easily as breathing, but he said it wasn’t easy to explain how he did it; he said it was just a normal bodily function for him, growing up knowing how to do it as it was coded into his natural instincts, and being asked how it worked was like asking why someone blinked or why they took their next breath.

“Just show me again, John.”

       The telltale sound of John’s light steps echoed along the hallway before Sherlock felt the stairs shake beneath the weight of his steps as he carefully padded around the brooding Deity and coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs. John always complied with Sherlock’s selfish requests, regardless to whether he was busy doing something, or if he wasn’t exactly comfortable with doing what he asked. The blonde often explained it as a Sentry’s duty; his job was to help Sherlock with whatever he needed, be it protecting him from danger or following each order he was given. John told him that Gods and Deities were like royalty whereas Sentries were the common folk and helpers; as a Claimed Sentry – John said it was being owned by a God or Goddess because they were indebted to them – it was John’s job to help Sherlock learn how to use his abilities in any way he possibly could.

“Are you watching?”

       Sitting up to admire John’s power, Sherlock stationed his palms atop his knees and leaned forward to watch John carefully. Honestly, he could describe in perfect detail exactly what John looked like right before he showed his reaction through light. His eyebrows, so blonde they were almost invisible, lifted just about a centimeter – relaxation through proxy it would seem – before his lips would part around a steadying exhale. In succession to these movements, Sherlock knew that John’s hands would relax as well, letting his fingers unclench from a fist into a lax brush of his fingertips against his white clothed thigh. John’s light, warm and kind, filled the room with more strength than the suns’ light that streamed through the window.

In that moment, John would take in a breath, and his eyelashes would flutter in a subconscious vibrato of silent thought; Sherlock knew that this only happened when John was truly interested in helping. When he was tired, John’s entire face would go slack, and it seemed almost dead on his feet before he opened up his eyes to watch Sherlock. No, John was interested now; his breathing was easy, and not deep enough to indicate that he was lulled into fatigue by his actions, and when he opened his eyes to see his Deity, Sherlock was ready and waiting to catch those aquamarine colored irises that were tainted into a false virescent hue by the gold light of his power. Sighing, Sherlock sat back; he had already tried to relax like John, and the only thing that changed was that he was merely more irritated than before he started.

“I still can’t do it.”

       John laughed, moving to settled down next to Sherlock on the stairs with an easy smile pasted on his face. He didn’t make the light disappear; he said it was more comfortable for him –pretending to be a human wracked his nerves, he told Sherlock, and this was a form of tension relief that allowed him to lift the mask for at least a moment. Then again, Sherlock didn’t mind the light either; it gave off a warmth that soaked through his cold exterior and nestled in his bones, latching onto the marrow of each limb and bathing him in an easy, comfortable heat.

“You don’t even know what you’re trying to do.”

       Sherlock was frustrated; not in a way that he could find interesting and fascinating to student, but in a way that normally caused him to lash out. John had been patient for the past week, and constantly apologized when his Deity passed the line that divided frustration and anger within a time frame of very few seconds, no matter what it was Sherlock blamed him for. The young Holmes lifted his hands and frowned at it palms once more; as per the norm for the past several days, nothing happened. Forcing himself to relax, Sherlock closed his eyes and took several breaths, trying to tackle his muscles into submission while John sat by, obligation by his Deity’s subjugation to stay put and watch. Sherlock huffed and opened his eyes.

“It’s not working.”

       John smiled, sitting back against the stairs and opening his hands in a vague helpless gesture toward Sherlock. The Sentry could offer little other condolences besides the gesture, given that Sherlock wasn’t a very physical person, and a pat on the back would probably be overstepping some sort of boundary that the two boys had never clearly defined.

“That’s not how it works. You can’t just… will it to happen.”

“Then what? Tell me what to do.” Sherlock pivoted on his place on the step, holding to his hands to John to try and pressure the Sentry into giving him some sort of clue. “What do I need to see? What do I need to feel?”

       The blonde frowned, looking up at the ceiling for an answer before biting his lip and shying away from Sherlock’s annoyed glare, opting to watch the floor. His tanned palms were shown to the curly haired teen once more in another inexplicit showing of his uncertainty.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not sure how to… express it.”

“You’re supposed to be able to.” Sherlock stood with a growl, brushing off John’s repetition of ‘I’m sorry’ before pacing across the entryway in short, pointed steps. “You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you? You’ve been waiting to show me these things, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” John looked to the floor, uncomfortable with the way the conversation had turned. “But,”

“No, you’re supposed to be able to show me, and yet you’re sitting here being completely useless!”

       While Sherlock was glaring at him, John sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face in a tired manner, obviously not wanting to argue, although arguing was the only thing Sherlock wanted to do. John light was fading slowly throughout Sherlock’s shouting; he had told Sherlock that he wasn’t willing to fight with his Deity, and violence was only displayed when Sherlock was in danger.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that; just tell me what to do.”

“I can’t, Sherlock. It’s not that simple!”

“John, just,” Sherlock grit his teeth, glaring for a moment before letting a flare of insults fly out of his mouth as if he was fighting with Mycroft. “Why can’t you do anything I ask you? I thought you were supposed to be my Claimed, but I suppose you must’ve bowed down to my mother and ignored your ‘oath’. You can’t even do the one thing she asked you to do! What use are you to me?”

       The subtle glow of his light finally disappeared, and his chin dipped down in a troubled display of his giving up. John was quiet for a moment, swallowing his real response with his go-to statement, settling into a dark mood and not allowing a single word to slip out of place.

“I’m sorry.”

       Using his arms as battering rams, Sherlock slammed his palms – useless as they were – against the hot walls of the house, heated not only by the sun, but undoubtedly by John’s own agitation. The movement produced a satisfying sound much like a percussion player ringing a note off of a timpani. John jumped, and Sherlock felt the room grow uncomfortably hot before relaxing into a normal temperature with a shaky sigh from John. They stayed like that for a moment, staring at each other with liquid heat bubbling between them until Sherlock turned in a tight circle and marched out of the wide open front doors.

“I’m going home.”

       He didn’t stop, nor did he turn back to hear or see the heavy doors swing shut behind him with John’s power, he merely stared at the grass being crushed beneath his feet as he walked. It was unacceptable, the idea of not understanding a power he should’ve claimed easily as a young child. Ducking under the low-hanging branches of the trees just beyond the side door of the Estate and wrenching the door open with enough force to make himself stumble, Sherlock threw himself into the kitchen and sat down in the nearest chair with a huff.

       Mrs. Hudson yelped something about slamming the door like he had, but Sherlock was uninterested. He wanted to be angry, to yell and stomp and slam. Not only that, but he wanted to understand exactly why John couldn’t – or wouldn’t – explain what was going on with him. When John showed Sherlock his own power, he made sure to slow the entire process down, given that the first night they met, John could easily bring that light up within a fraction of a second. It was clear that he wanted to help Sherlock, but he couldn’t just give him the answers, given that Sherlock’s power didn’t have anything to do with light; he was a Deity of dreams. John was merely trying to help Sherlock; and he’d turned it around. It was different from when Mycroft was angering Sherlock; when Sherlock yelled at Mycroft, he never felt bad about it because he brother was fully deserving of anything he said. Now, the anger he felt had begun to boil down to his own petty urge to lash out due to his own incompetence.

       As beautiful as cut glass, clean and pure in its composition, Sherlock felt like John’s actions were crystalline shards of such glass. Fracturing all inconsequential thought and heating it with the power of his sun to melt it together. John’s sun was nestled deep inside his chest where Sherlock couldn’t quite reach out to touch it; and he wanted to see it, to hold its flavescent splendor in his own hands and know that he was in control. But, he wasn’t in control, no matter how much he wanted to believe that he was; Sherlock sighed. He said such horrible things to him.

“Horrible.”

       He said aloud, as if to confirm that he’d done something wrong by speaking to John in such a manner. Mrs. Hudson merely watched him through the thin line of her eyelashes, peering at him while she stirred a batch of brownie batter, leisurely holding the bowl in the crook of her right arm as she did. Sherlock dropped his head to the countertop, hearing a satisfying crack as his skull made contact with the linoleum. It was grounding, in a way; a sharp strike of pain to assure that he was really in the Summer Estate, feeling like his feet were stuck in a boy of untraveled wastelands full of emotions he’d never bothered to feel, just because he’d never felt bad for insulting someone.

       John was different; he was a new feeling, a strange cocktail of emotion that Sherlock never knew he’d come to be addicted to with only a week of time shared between them. He was something that Sherlock didn’t want to lose, even if that meant losing his defensive silver-tongue and instead just allowing John to see his failures along with his fair share of disappointment.

“I should apologize,” Sherlock murmured to the kitchen counter, feeling the last drop of anger fall from his mind as he admitted his guilt. “I need to apologize.”

“That might do you some good, dear.”

       Mrs. Hudson hummed from her place across the kitchen looking down into the mixing bowl to monitor the batter. Rolling his eyes in a manner he hoped seemed defiant, Sherlock closed his eyes against his blurry vision of the countertop. It had only been eight days that they had known each other, and Sherlock already felt the sticky sensation of sentiment working its way into his heart. The young Holmes easily believed the fact that John was not a human, and he himself was capable of being something more, but he couldn’t believe that he was already feeling syrupy sweet emotions for John. He didn’t need friends, and he didn’t pride himself with being a good friend either; Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste the thick influence of copper. He should apologize.

“I should… go back,” Sherlock stood up straight, looking to Mrs. Hudson who was still working beating away at her brownie batter. She gave him a concerned glance, as if she pitied him for not realizing how idiotic it was to attack John with hurtful words before he said them; his stomach roiled at the sight, and he pondered the idea of John not forgiving him. It was John’s job to teach Sherlock, but it wasn’t his job to be kind about it. He shook his head as if to push the ideas of John not being his friend, running the tip of his tongue over his teeth before restating his intentions again. “I’m going back.”

“And where is it that you’re going back to, Sherlock?”

       Making note of how Mycroft sounded like he’d added ten stone to his ego – let alone to his waistband due to Mrs. Hudson’s love of baking – Sherlock rolled his eyes. His half-brother had been overly curious about where Sherlock had been disappearing to for the past week, asking him where he’d be going and what he’d been up to; Mycroft was being more of a brother than he’d been for the past ten years. Glaring over his shoulder at his older brother, Sherlock curled his lips around one of his more pleasant replies.

“Outside, Mycroft. To run and play like the child that I am; is that a problem?”

       Straightening his coal colored suit jacket with his left hand, Mycroft smoothed his right hand over his russet hair, keeping his appearance perfect despite the agitated glint in his eye that suggested he wasn’t particularly in the mood to deal with Sherlock’s attitude. Before the ginger haired man could catch him with a flare of his righteous curiosity, Sherlock smoothed the front of his thin green shirt and made his way to the side-door, slipping out into the sunlight with a casual 'goodbye' to Mrs. Hudson.

       Sherlock took quick, calculated steps when he began his escape back to the Strange House, and to John. He moved was his normal pace, long strides with hardly any movement in his body wasted; it wasn't quite so when he was with John. When he was with John, time seemed to pass them by too quickly, sliding through the air when Sherlock would take a deep breath, and skipping minutes into hours when he shifted his feet over the hardwood floor. Everything seemed to take a slower pace with John, making even his heart slow from its normal quick rhythm when he was learning something interesting into a calmer, more contained thud of blood whispering through his veins on its own time. It drove him insane, this slow-paced world of John that had no place in the fast-paced reality that Sherlock knew existed somewhere beyond the walls of the Strange House. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to walk away from it completely.

       Part of Sherlock wanted to bring John back to the Summer Estate to see if something strange and unthinkable would happen; would he let Mycroft see his sunshine pallor? Would he slow down time with the slow blink of his crystalline blue eyes, and bring Sherlock up from his racing sprint along the surface of the earth to enter a more tranquil plane, breathing the air form a higher place? Sherlock liked to think that John could make it possible, if he didn't hate the hot tempered boy yet. He knew he wasn't likeable, and it had never really bothered him before; it was strange, this 'having friends' business. So much strange work that Sherlock's mind wasn't used to; it broke up thoughts into fractals of unstudied pondering that left him lying in his bed long after he told himself to sleep, thinking of strange things – like John. John and all of his frustratingly captivating innocence and capturing mannerisms.

       There was no time to think on that though, Sherlock decided, raising his fist to pound on the surface of the Strange House three times. The Deity could almost hear the hesitance to open the door on the other side, hidden beneath the soft treading of feet that he' become used to hearing every morning of his summer leave from school; John's feet, having their own special beat that was never out of place. Until now. Now that he'd said such things, Sherlock knew that John must want to hold a grudge; Mycroft always held grudges when he spoke too far out of line.

       But – much to Sherlock's surprise – the door of the Strange House opened to reveal a disgruntled John. This was a John that Sherlock had never seen before; he had seen John as a tired young man, yawning and rubbing at his eyes while Sherlock sat down on the stairs and watched him pull the curtains open with a sweet, sleepy disposition clear on his face in the form of a smile. He had seen John awake and excited, fueled by some bright, happy day that echoed in his personality, waving his hands in excited gestures when Sherlock brought up stories about John in his mother's diary. He had even seen John fall asleep, leaning against the railing of the stairs with his head tilted back and his lips parted around each long, peaceful breath. Never before had Sherlock seen John angry, but he couldn't quite think of what to say.

       What would one say at a time like this? He never put much stock in the use of social niceties; he knew that he should apologize to keep John as his friend, but he would not apologize for being angry. He had every right to be upset.

“I'm not going to apologize for how I acted.”

       John's lips were pressed into a tight line, and his jaw worked a bit before he merely clenched it shut and gave the curly haired teen a sharp stare from underneath honey colored eyelashes. Prickly tension lingered in the air between them for a moment, and Sherlock wondered if John didn't quite grasp what he was saying; he was a fairly simple young man, so Sherlock didn't put it past him not to understand. Taking a breath, Sherlock smoothed out his expression and gestured quietly to the space that John took up in the open door.

“May I come in?”

       Stepping back to allow the young Holmes inside, John let out a quick comment that brought out the fact that he was more of a passive-aggressive attacker when it came to verbal arguments. Sherlock made sure to remember that for the next time he became upset; he didn't want to fight with John like this anymore.

“I am obligated by oath to let you in, Sherlock.”

       Glancing at John with open confusion, Sherlock let his eyebrows knit together in questioning wonder. John merely lifted his own eyebrows, keeping their gazes locked for a moment before letting his eyes fall to the floor; ashamed or embarrassed, Sherlock couldn't quite tell. Too many unknown variables and not enough peace in the room to ask the correct questions. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock tried to deduct something about John that he could use to appease whatever anger he had already raised from the depths of his normally calm disposition to shout at him in the form of stony silence. There were many things to notice , but at the same time, there was nothing he could do to fix it.

       John’s body language – arms crossed over his chest and his body held at an angle to avoid direct view of the most exposed area of the body aside from the head: the heart – showed that he felt mistrust and anxiety. His eyes echoed a refrain of the stance, scowling without changing his visage, reprimanding Sherlock with his opal vision whilst holding his chin down to show submission. Sherlock wanted to fix it, but his pride was tripping him and causing his mind to tremble at the treat of an earthquake; he’d never bowed his head when he was wrong, he’d merely carried on with his normal air of ignorance.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Sherlock pursed his lips and sighed. He had every right to be upset before; he wasn’t very adept with taking things slowly. He wanted to understand things quickly, to grasp the concept of whatever he was learning and keep the basics of it in the back of his Mind Palace, ready to be distributed at a relevant time. Looking about the entryway with wandering thoughts, Sherlock sighed heavily.

“I don’t do well with idle time, John.”

The Sentry brought up his chin, obviously interested in this development, and gave Sherlock a gentle quirk of a nearly invisible blonde eyebrow. His hunched shoulders lifted just a handful of degrees, but it was enough for the young Holmes to feel as if the awkward truth that had spilled from his lips was making a positive difference.

“What’s wrong with idle time?”

“It’s,” Sherlock looked up to the ceiling, waiting for a simple description to flutter down from the rafters and fall to the ground in front of his shoes -- it didn’t -- and John merely gained a smile on his face, wry and small. “It’s boring. I like to learn things right away, and I’ve been sitting here for ten days, John.” Taking the time that he had been wasting into stock, Sherlock took a breath and shook his head in a disbelieving manner. “Ten days, John; ten days of _nothing_. Ten days of nothing but… waiting.”

John shrugged nonchalantly, as if the problems of his Deity were nothing of consequence and Sherlock was dramatizing his obsessive compulsive need to learn quickly. His bare feet tapped the floor as he meandered over to the staircase, sitting down as if he had all the time in the world, when in reality, Sherlock was only three minutes from lighting himself on fire and calling it finished. The Sentry took his time with settling down on the bottom step of the staircase, watching Sherlock with a smile that held no humor, nor any malice.

“Maybe that’s what you’re missing.”

“Waiting?” Sherlock snorted, shaking his head in disapproval. “I don’t think so.”

It would’ve been easy to mistake John’s following silence as an angry, nonverbal retort; but Sherlock didn’t like to think of John that way. John’s frustration was normally expressed calmly and passively, but he wasn’t someone to purposefully lead Sherlock down an opposite path to prove that he was right in a situation. Sherlock was too smart for that, and John wasn’t smart enough. John shrugged again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palm; the vision of a normal boy in repose. A flash of gold caught Sherlock’s eye, and he watched John’s empty hand fidget with a ring on his index finger; a topic that he’d bring up when John’s anger was pacified.

“The idle time.” John hummed to the open air in front of him, watching the front door sway open wider with the invisible hand of a breeze moving it further. “Maybe you just need to learn to relax; you obviously haven’t been relaxing for the past ten days, and that’s how I learned how to bring out my own strength.”

Taking his chances, Sherlock moved over to the stairs slowly and sat down next to John, feeling just as hopeless as before. He knew so much about John; small quirks and tells that no one else would ever know, but he just couldn’t find the reason that he wanted to change him from the cold John that was being presented to him back into the John that laughed at his stubbornness and smiled at his sarcasm.

“I can’t just sit and do nothing, John. I need to know what to do.” He took a breath; the last time he’d apologized to someone and actually meant it was when he knocked over one of his fathers’ crystal tumblers that he used for brandy. He’d apologized to people before, to please the masses -- and to get out of a certain few sticky situations -- but Sherlock knew that with John, he’d have to be honest. “I will say that I’m sorry for what I said about you. Those things… they’re not true. I won’t apologize for being angry though.”

Sherlock could feel the warmth radiating from John’s sunmade skin, and a smile threatened to cover his lips as John made a thoughtful hum in response, but he stopped it with a sharp bite of his canine teeth into his cheek. Leaning back against the staircase, Sherlock decided that he didn’t want to fight with John ever again. It was a definite fact that he liked to push limits, but he didn’t want to push John’s anger over the edge to the point of him never smiling again; no, he wouldn’t do that.

“I had every right to be mad.”

“Of course you did.” John nodded, not taking his eyes off of the doorway; Sherlock noted how his eyes crinkled when he was hiding a smile; priceless. “You must’ve been frustrated.”

Humming affirmatively, Sherlock watched the shimmering light that was John’s own soul igniting the afternoon sunlight in the room a fiery warm glow that showed his forgiveness without having to say it aloud. Sherlock didn’t fight the smile that wanted to appear now, letting his lips turn up in a vague suggestion of happiness that overshadowed any nervousness that may have been a leftover effect of asking for forgiveness.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

The Sentry sent him a sideways glance, tilting his head at a coy angle that made Sherlock feel a bit like his knees were made of gelatin. He blinked; that was interesting. He’d have to store that away in his mind and return to that sensation later. In the mean time, he felt his lips kick up at the side as he settled in for another long afternoon of trying to learn how to understand himself all over again. He bumped John’s shoulder with his own, feeling the excess heat of the Sentry’s skin through the thin fabric of his white shirt, and feeling it once more when John leaned over and bumped his shoulder in return. And that was it. Friends again, as if nothing had happened between them. Sherlock wanted it to always be that way.

Turning to John, he let out a low laugh that had John following suit, and both of them were laughing at their own ridiculous argument -- that Sherlock would admit that he started -- and seeing how the idiotic grumble of petty came to an end -- John would insist that he won. For once in his miserably boring life, Sherlock was happy to give in just this once; he would hate to lose someone as interesting as John. And Sherlock told him so, in the closest words he could:

“Thank you.”


	7. Dream with Me

“Take something to eat. Wait, Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson called to him as he leaned heavily on the side door one morning, eager to get away before Mycroft woke and interrogated him; if he wasn’t already awake. She eyed him with scolding hazel irises, monitoring him until he rolled his eyes, and shuffled back to the island in the middle of the kitchen and plucked an apple from the fruit bowl there. Continuing to watch him as he took a bite of the fruit, Mrs. Hudson wiped the back of her hands on a dish towel she always had prestigiously draped over her shoulder, smiling a bit to herself as Sherlock took even, calculated bites; like a man that was storing up food for later use or deprivation.

“Now, one more thing before you go. I want you to do something for me while you’re out,”

Sherlock fluttered his hands in front of him, carefully setting down the apple on the counter and then chewing quickly and swallowing the last remnants of apple in his mouth so that he could reply quickly.

“No, no! I have important things to do with John, today. I feel like I’m on the brink of a major breakthrough Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock smiled, stepping up close to the landlady to express his barely contained excitement. “I can almost feel it.”

Feeling a surge of her motherly pride bubbling up inside of her, Mrs. Hudson took up her hand to brush one of the unruly curls from Sherlock’s forehead with a smile.

“That’s wonderful, dear. I only want to ask for one thing; invite John home for lunch, please.”

“Sure, fine. He won’t come down though. He’s told me more than once that he’s obligated to stay at that house, and he never gets hungry.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded quietly, pursing her lips and patting her palms together to fill up the uneasy silence that ensued Sherlock’s words. Sherlock could nearly feel the tension in the air that filled his room the first day he had arrived at the Summer Estate, with Mrs. Hudson telling him that the Strange House was filled with unimaginable people and things; he could almost draw a connection between the two things, but he was also very anxious to leave before his half-brother could have the chance to wake and come into the kitchen, searching for more of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking to devour.

“Well, maybe he might be a bit lonely up there, all alone until you go to see him every day.”

Sherlock nodded, bringing the apple off of the counter and crunching another bite into his mouth as he swung the side door open.

“I’ve tried Mrs. Hudson. He won’t listen to me.”

And that fact, more than the fact that he couldn’t grasp his own strength, more than the fact that he didn’t want to tell Mycroft that he knew they were only half-brothers, and even more than the fact that he wanted to understand how to see his mother, bothered him. John would insist that he needed to return to his home to receive the normal human contact that he’d lived with his entire life; it was like he and John were best friends, but he didn’t understand the simplest thing about Sherlock’s personality. He didn’t want human contact -- though he couldn’t go a day without seeing John at least once, even though his excursions sometimes only lasted a few hours to end with him storming away and returning the next day with a sour face.

John would always welcome him back with a smile and a wide wave of his arm to gesture to the inside of the house. Sherlock was sure it was the biggest ‘welcome home’ he’d ever received from someone outside of his family. No one else could stand him, so what was the point of John telling him that he needed human contact? None, really. John was the one who needed to come out of that ungodly and seemly house. Rapping his knuckles against the large front doors, Sherlock rocked back on his heels and wondered why John was so partial to staying in the house.

It could be the fact that he was anxious to go anywhere besides the small space that he knew; Sherlock didn’t like that idea -- it made John seem like a coward. Shaking his head, Sherlock brushed that thought away; John had been out in the forest when his mother found him, as dictated by the diary and testified by John himself when Sherlock asked. Perhaps he was nervous about what other human beings would think of him; again, this made John seem like a mouse in comparison to the guardian that he was truly meant to be. Given Mrs. Hudson’s constant asking about John, Sherlock knew that he and the landlady had met before, if only chastely, to chat or even have a meal. No, John was not a ninny, and there was no reason to think that he was; Sherlock was sure he had his reasons.

Swinging the door open, John met Sherlock with a bold statement; his eyes glittered with newly ignited enlightenment.

“I think we were looking at this the wrong way.”

He announced, stepping back into the house with the door standing open for Sherlock on his way. Sherlock entered, feeling more than a bit lost in the bright light that surrounded John -- a bit harsher than normal -- but it wasn’t a bad thing; John was excited, and Sherlock wanted to revel in that. Moving around the entryway until he was sitting on the steps while John pulled the heavy curtains over the windows back, Sherlock interjected Mrs. Hudson’s request before he listened to John’s realization.

“Mrs. Hudson wants me to invite you home for lunch.”

John’s movements paused before he shook his head with a sorry expression; John never did want to go back with him. Letting the rejection roll off of him in a wave, Sherlock took the news in his stride, turning the apple in his hand over in his fingers and smiling as his Sentry continued to open the curtains gleefully.

“I’m alright; but what I figured out is something important. We were doing things the way I learned to do them, and that may be where we’ve been going wrong.” He smiled, lighting up the room with the warm heat of a summer sun in his expression; Sherlock squinted against the light, glad to return the smile as John bounced up the stairs and out of sight to push open the rest of the curtains. “Deities must be different, otherwise the exercises would have worked before.”

“Impressive, John.” Sherlock announced up the stairs, hearing a slight stutter of the Sentry’s steps at the given compliment, resuming their normal pace within a moment. “How, pray tell, are you going to change the method you’ve been teaching? We’ve been trying to find my strength for three weeks, now.”

Wincing at that admittance, Sherlock heard the shuffle of John’s feet against the top of the stairs; a quiet sound to precede his descent to sit next to Sherlock. Albicant light around John was reflected off of the glass in the window panes, causing a glare to be cast along the length of the floor in the Strange House; Sherlock could see that John was proud of the praise that he was just allowed, and if that was the result, the hair haired teen would happily praise him more.

“Learning to relax and see inside yourself is helpful for finding any strength, but I think that we need to be looking for something other than raw emotion or strength.” John’s eyes burned with a hidden emotion that Sherlock wasn’t sure that he was able to define. “You need to be looking for dreams. Not strength.”

Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock’s chin dipped down in thought before he watched John with his lips pursed in deep thought. “Dreams? How exactly am I supposed to look for dreams? Am I supposed to remember them, or recall them?”

John laughed; it was a tension relieving action, a great release of oxygen that was turning stale in his lungs while he had been waiting for Sherlock. Sherlock wanted to be angry at him for laughing. He was sure that he really wanted to be furious; but, deep within a unexplored crevice in himself, previously thought to be empty, he had found an unseemly pleasure in making John happy.

“Why don’t we start with something that your mother used to call ‘simple’. She would go on and on about the dreams I would think about often, something like...”

“Mind reading?”

“Yes, yes.” John hummed, licking his lips before cuffing a hand through his short hair bashfully while he thought. “something like that, only your mother could read the dreams that I thought of often, and tell me whether or not she believed they could come true.”

Sherlock nodded, lacing his fingers together around the half-eaten apple that was still nestled in the palm of his right hand. The easy manner in which John spoke gave him a sense of security that he’d never felt when he was around Mycroft or near the other boys at school; he could make a mistake, and no one would mind. John would still be there, willing to accept him.

“Alright, you’re the teacher. How do I start?”

John blinked and looked to the ceiling as he licked his lips, thinking about the process of starting a real first lesson. His smile was still present, and Sherlock felt his lips curl around a smile in response; it was so easy to smile at John, even when he wasn’t looking. Part of Sherlock wondered why that was, but a larger part of him, a part that was less logical and more enticed by the idea of getting lost in heady experiments and forgetting to eat every day, told him to ignore the reasons and to just continue on his beaten path. So, that’s what Sherlock did.

“I’ll think of a dream,” John said, spreading his fingers as he held his palms out to Sherlock, miming something like a calm explosion of thought. “and you will try to bend your thoughts around my own to see the dream. Does that make sense?”

Sherlock was almost positive that the whole exchange was more complicated than John let on, but he nodded eagerly in return. It was an interesting thing to Sherlock; the theory that magic was real and Gods and Goddesses could roam the Earth freely; it wasn’t something that he, a boy of seventeen and an avid scholar of science, would put much stock into to begin with. No, he never did believe in such things, but John was here, and John was nearly the embodiment of light itself. THat was enough to ensure Sherlock’s hope that everything John had told him, and everything the diary had promised him, was real.

“Fine. Yes, that sounds fine. Just…” Sherlock caught John glancing down at the apple in his hand, and he held it out for the Sentry with a smile. John took it, not minding the fact that it was already semi eaten, and continued to eat the remaining parts of it. “Just tell me when to start trying. Is there a certain thing I should be thinking of, or some sort of… boundary that I’m supposed to push?”

There was a crunch as John struggled to munch through a mouthful of apple, and Sherlock pursed his lips agitatedly as he was forced to wait for an answer. John’s luminous response was a bashful smile before he covered his mouth with the back of his empty hand while he spoke.

“No boundary, Sherlock.” He swallowed and tapped his index finger against the red skin of the fruit in his hand, licking his lips once again before catching Sherlock’s gaze again. “Let’s give it a shot. It can’t be too difficult, considering the fact that we’ve been working on controlling your senses through a calm, relaxed environment.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded, “Of course. This house is definitely relaxing.”

With a flick of John’s wrist, he gave a dismissive wave to Sherlock’s sarcasm, smiling through another bite of fruit. Oddly intimate and comforting, John’s empty hand landed atop Sherlock’s knee, braced there for a moment before John used the hand as an anchor to push himself off of the stair he presided. Standing tall over Sherlock despite his inferior height, John nodded to himself, swallowing the last of the apple and shaking the core back and forth like a pendulum before Sherlock’s eyes; a strange metronome that kept an unmarked time.

“Up you get, Sherlock.” John ordered as Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow. “Time to see if your mother’s idea of ‘easy’ is the same as yours.”

The aurulent light of John’s skin still reflected a glare on the glass windows, and a sharp beam of light caught in Sherlock’s stormy eyes, causing him to squint and look away while he stood. He was calm, but in a way that buzzed with three weeks of lost excitement; relaxed aggression rattled about in his stationary form as he waited for instruction. He was ready; ready for the wasted time of the past few weeks to be forgotten, and ready to begin anew with new tactics of learning with John; he was ready, but doubtful all the same.

As a knowledgeable young man -- being such a young man was something Sherlock privately prided himself in being -- he knew that there was a certain ratio of his biological makeup that did not condone the use of magic, nor the seeing or reciting of a dream outside of his own mind. His fathers’ DNA still made up his person, and he couldn’t shake the dangerous thought of this genetic weakness causing his failure to take after his mother in the ways of her power and leaving him with nothing but her dark curly hair and stormy eyes.

“We’ll try something simple at first; I’ll just think of one dream, alright? I’ll focus on this one dream, and you do the exercises that we’ve been working on; does that sound right to you?”

Pasting on a cocky smile that made John’s own lips to twist into an amused grin and his light to shimmer, Sherlock planted his feet shoulder width apart and began to take longer, relaxed breaths.

“Just do it, John,” Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling his limbs grow a bit heavy with the loss of his concentration on physical senses and the expansion of his mental awareness. “You know I hate waiting; I’m impatient. Let’s start.”

 

+++++

 

Sweating wasn’t something Sherlock found pleasant; it was a bodily function he could do without. Although it showed the physical tells of a job well done in most situations, it sat heavily on his face, arms, and legs in salty drops of exertion and lingered until the weight of gravity dragged it further down his skin. Though he had been forced to run, jump, and push in his school yard scuffles as a child, he would always detest the aspect of sweating, no matter where the condensation lingered.

With his lips pursed and his head aching with a throbbing migraine, Sherlock felt the heady rush of dizziness in his light limbs while he forced his thoughts into submission while John sat patiently in front of him on the stairs; he was sweating profusely. It was a kind of sweat that came through constant devotion to his task, only building at his temples and dampening the heavy curl of his dark hair over his forehead. He had been focusing for hours with John, trying to pinpoint the feeling of relaxation while engaging his senses around his Sentry.

At first, Sherlock had thought that he wasn’t truly meant to learn his mothers’ real skills, only inheriting his useless fathers’ idiocy as he couldn’t see or hear any dreams that John would announce he was envisioning. John would shake his head and smile, patting Sherlock’s shoulder in a small friendly gesture that made Sherlock feel heavy with failure; ‘It’s alright,’ John had said, ‘you just need to practice a bit more.’ With John’s easy smile and gentle encouragements on his side, Sherlock continued with steeled determination.

Then came the flickers of images: stand still captures of thoughts and recorded sounds in John’s mind that came flooding into Sherlock’s head too fast for him to process. It was a rush of drugs that he had been schooled to give up; a headache so jarring that it sent multicolored lightning bolts across his vision; it was a missed step on a flight of stairs that he hadn’t expected and his foot fell through open air while his body tumbled helplessly after. His eyes, previously closed, had snapped open as the floor beneath him lurched and tilted at an unnatural angle. His Sentry caught him, holding him up and waving a hand back and forth in front of his face in a weak attempt to fan him.

Sitting up after a ‘short’ twenty minute rest of his head between his knees and John’s warm palm smoothing the fabric covering his back, he felt more in control; breathing deeply as he sat cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed. Through John’s dreams and memories he saw his mother standing tall among the Strange House, giving instructions in a voice Sherlock swore he would never hear again. With John’s eyes, he saw the Sentry’s that hid in the forest, blending into the trees, melting with the rain, and disappearing into the wind when they were dismissed by the Dream Goddess. Sherlock watched as his mother scolded John for wanting to leave the house sweetly, patting his head and closing the door to go back to the Summer Estate, leaving John for another long day. It made Sherlock’s stomach twist; not only for the fact that his head was throbbing enough to make him nauseous, but for the fact that John had constantly been separated from not only his mother and humans, but from his own kind.

Feeling a warm hand brush across his temple, Sherlock’s thoughts stuttered, jolting awake the physical senses that had been set on standby while his own conscious mingled with John’s. With John’s sun warmed fingers drying the perspiration that had collected in his hair, Sherlock felt lighter, and just a bit rewarded for five hours of hard work.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was low and calling, as if he thought Sherlock had fallen asleep. “it’s late; you should be going home, now. You’ve done enough for one day.”

“Enough?” Sherlock opened his eyes with a breathless smile, seeing the dark rings of fatigue under John’s eyes that crinkled with a tired grin. “I’ve done amazing, John! I am on the edge of understanding how to control this; I need to stay.”

“Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow. You’re tired, and you need to sleep.”

Sherlock shook his head and stood up to protest, only to feel his legs buckle and give away beneath him while his head spun and his stomach churned. John stood to gather up his Deity in his arms, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders in his warm hands and holding him up, as if the dark haired teen would drown in his own dreams if he let him go. Sherlock let himself be caught, and allowed himself to be held; it wasn’t often that someone coddled him, but it was less often that anyone would want to do anything of the sort in the first place. If it was John, Sherlock assured himself, it was fine. It was alright to be held -- if it was John, of course -- because John would only hold him for the most logical purposes. Unless John wanted to hold him for any other reason, although Sherlock didn’t quite know what he thought of that. Sherlock closed his eyes against the thought and turned his head where it sat on John’s shoulder so that his cheek brushed against John’s sunflower petal hair.

“Put me down. Let me sit, John. Just for a moment.”

Sherlock ordered, feeling John’s capable hands slide down his back to rest on his hips while he lowered the taller teen back down to the floor. Shifting himself so that his back was leaning against the wall that framed the staircase, Sherlock tilted his head back and closed his eyes with a thoughtful sigh. He heard the soft shuffle of John’s bare soles against the smooth hardwood floors, scuffing against three of the stairs until the Sentry was seated on a step, and slowly, laying back against the step. Sherlock wouldn’t dare to pull away as he felt John’s hair brush his own; it was a strangely comforting feeling to know that John was tired as well; perhaps for being quiet and still for so many long hours.

John liked to talk to him -- Sherlock didn’t mind listening, and he enjoyed the fact that could watch John’s emotion filled face for the social cues that told him when to smile and nod -- and the idea of holding his words inside, say for the announcement every thirty minutes that he was changing the dream, must have been difficult. So, sitting against the steps with the crowns of their hair touching, jet black mingling with sunlight gold, Sherlock didn’t mind the idea of being near John. Then again, he never did; this was a topic that Sherlock enjoyed avoiding just as much as he liked to linger on it, the only problem was that he only seemed to linger on John’s sugary smile and the way he leaned against him in the afternoons at inappropriate times, like when he was getting ready for bed or when he was stepping into the shower. Sherlock could see John as if he was right in front of him, recalling sparks of tingling memories and oddly stirring altercations with him whilst he was trying to focus on reading or eating a meal.

While he ate, could almost see John at the table with him, leaning forward and gripping his shoulders to look at him clearly, smiling at him and glancing up at him coyly through his honey color lashes. Sherlock had held a glass of milk to his lips for almost three minutes thinking of John in such a manner, debating the pros and cons of imagining John or himself saying something -- anything, for that matter -- to further the intimacy between their teaching sessions. But, just as his thoughts would meander over this topic, he rationalized that John was not the same as him, and normal boys -- even though Sherlock knew he was anything but normal -- would never think of each other in such a way.

Changing his line of thought from the delicate subject of John’s capturing eyes and alluring smile, Sherlock roamed over his memory of John’s dreams. Most of the dreams recalled memories of his mother speaking to him, holding his hand and leading him somewhere, or simply sitting with him. Feeling an uncomfortable mass building up in his throat, Sherlock opened his eyes and felt his expression twist into a scowl; there was no way that John would… no, he would never think such a thing. Covering his eyes with his right palm, Sherlock took the risk of asking John himself and deleting all chance of not knowing.

“John?”

Two yawns echoed through the entryway before the Sentry answered, John’s first, and Sherlock’s in response. “Yes, Sherlock.”

“Did you love my mother?”

There was a pause that would have made Sherlock uneasy if it weren’t for the sudden drop in temperature in the Strange House. John didn’t like hiding who he was, and that meant concealing his true form, as he told Sherlock, with the charm his mother had given him: the ring that was currently sitting prestigiously on his right ring finger. Even with the knowledge that John disliked hiding his light, not to mention who he really was  -- even though he refused to show Sherlock his true form, no matter how many threats were lobbed in his direction -- the temperature dropped with the disappearance of John’s light, as well as his heat.

“I didn’t… dislike her.” John spoke carefully, and Sherlock’s hand slipped from his face to rest atop his thigh next to his other hand. “I loved her the way a son would love his mother, but…”

“But she left you alone.”

Sherlock finished, hearing a disgruntled grumble from John that was most likely meant to be a denial. There was too much sentiment lingering in the recesses of John’s thoughts, and not a clear enough image of a dream for Sherlock to decipher, and therefore, no way for him to understand who or what John was thinking of in that moment. The Deity was sure that it shouldn’t have been so difficult to discern John’s feelings given the fact that John was a simple person, even if he was a Sentry and not a normal young man. This attribute was quite trivial, he possessed qualities of a human boy that shone through in his desire for attention and preening when he was praised. It echoed in the sentimental way he would croon Sherlock’s name or hum in disappointment when Sherlock refused to listen. Moreover, John’s need for physical intimacy gave away to the most human of instincts, to be near someone like himself.

But, even with all of these similarities and parallels drawn between John and the human race, Sherlock could not, not matter how hard he tried, understand exactly what John felt about his mother. He had information that pulled him in one direction: John’s absolute and undivided devotion to his mother and his constant dreams of her urged him to consider the possibility of John’s possible love for her. However, the way John had described his feelings toward Danabell shook the foundation of that idea, shattering the premise of Sherlock’s logical findings and forcing him to question what he thought he knew.

“Do you hate her for leaving you alone?”

“No.” John’s voice was guarded, and used in a way that suggested offence. Sherlock held his breath and waited for any other information John was willing to give. “No, I don’t hate her.”

“But,” Sherlock heard John sigh heavily, “she left you. You enjoy companionship; you must have been lonely.”

There was uncomfortable shifting against the stairs, and John mumbled something under his breath. Craning his neck back, Sherlock tried to catch the words, but they had already died and found a new home among the still air that was growing thick with tension between them. Sherlock sensed that his chance for ask John questions was drawing to a close.

“What?” John didn’t repeat himself, and Sherlock wanted to know more about John’s point of view. He wanted to know what John saw, and why he saw it that way. “What was that, John?”

“I’m not lonely, Sherlock.”

“Of course; because I’m here, now.” Sherlock wiped the back of his hand across his forehead when John’s attitude increased just a bit to heighten the temperature. “I just want to know why you always dream of my mother when you didn’t enjoy being abandoned.”

The shriek of the stairs gave away John’s movement, telling Sherlock that he’d sat up and was well on his way to saying goodbye to Sherlock for the day.

“I was _not_ abandoned.”

“My mother left you in this house, all alone, for ten years, John. Yes, you aren’t a human and don’t necessarily require the same nourishment, but that doesn’t mean that you weren’t left alone to hold out for some sort of ‘miracle’.”

“I was not abandoned, Sherlock.” Blinking slowly, Sherlock was not surprised to see John standing before him with his hands on his hips and his expression pinched into an unfriendly scowl. “Your mother told me that she was leaving; I watched her go. Ten years ago, when I was still considered a child, she said goodbye, and I watched her leave. I was not abandoned. I was not left to fend for myself. She prepared me for,”

“For what? Waiting for me? You waited for ten years, John.”

“That’s not,”

“Ten _years_ , John. You were left alone by my mother. Where Mycroft and I were cared for, you were alone. I’m not saying that I think any less of my mother; true, I don’t condone her decision to leave you, but I do not blame her for choosing to leave my father, I’m merely saying that I understand why you wouldn’t care for her.”

John’s heat was filling the entryway and causing an unbearable amount of humidity to gather up in the space around them, thickening the air and making sweat bead along Sherlock’s brow anew. It wasn’t shocking for Sherlock, this heat that gave away John’s harsh emotions, nor the gentle gold glimmer of his light that sharpened into a teacup white, giving away his frustration. Even though the heat had surpassed the limit of joy and entered the area of irritated and mildly upset, Sherlock wasn’t afraid; John would never hurt him.

“I’m not lonely anymore, Sherlock. It’s… all of it is in the past, and I don’t care anymore. She is a goddess, and she ordered me to stay here. I will follow the orders of someone who outranks me any day.”

“So that makes the abandonment better?”

“No,” John’s thoughts stumbled, and his eyes widened in disbelief before he leaned forward over Sherlock and shook his head fervently. “No! I was not,”

“She left you, John.”

She didn’t…”

“My mother left you to say goodbye to her real children.”

John licked his lips, and Sherlock watched the movement with interest. “That’s enough of that, Sherlock.”

“You were never her real child; is that why you didn’t like her?”

“I never said...” John let out a huff of indignant laughter staring off into the corner behind Sherlock with agitated interest. “I didn’t say that. I never said that, Sherlock.”

“Did you wish she was your mother? Is that why you always dream of her? In hope that she’ll return one day and apologize? She won’t, John. If she could come back, she would have already. My mother would have most likely come to me: her real son.”

John’s expression darkened to something that sent cold sparks down Sherlock’s spine; it was not anger, but sadness. though the heat never left, the light did, leaving Sherlock in a darkened room with a distraught John. A haunting presence of despair and disappointment that mapped over John’s entire visage. It reminded Sherlock of the argument they had two weeks ago, and for a split moment, his stomach wrenched; what if John didn’t forgive him this time?

“Why are we talking about this?” John looked to Sherlock for a moment and caught his eyes, presenting his tired smile that never ceased to appear whenever he was trying to ignore his fatigue, anger, or sadness. “Why… how did we start talking about this? Why aren’t you celebrating the fact that you saw my dreams?” Sherlock blinked, wondering if he could pull an excuse out of his sleeve; lying seemed wrong when it came to John. The blonde sighed through his melancholy smile, shaking his head. “Why are we talking about this?”

Biting his lip, Sherlock looked about the room for the reason his heart was pounding; surely there was some sort of gas leak in the house that was making his headache worsen and his lungs to burn for air. Perhaps it had to do with the fact he was imagining John when he was alone, or maybe it was just the itch of formerly unexperienced guilt that only seemed to surface when John was upset.

“John,” His throat was too tight, as if the words were choking him as he tried to throw them from his airway. “John, almost every dream you had involved my mother. In the other dreams you were all alone in the dark; I just wanted to know what made you dream of her, whether or not you were afraid of her, or…” Sherlock met John’s forlorn eyes, not daring to look at his downcast smile while he finished his thought, “...or if you were merely waiting all this time, for _her_.”

John never minded that Sherlock found no boundaries when it came to personal space, but John also knew that Sherlock didn't’ care for unnecessary contact. Sherlock normally didn’t find any solace in a hug; but, he knew that John was different from anything he had ever experienced. There was no person aside from his mother that could hold him and make him feel comforted; if John were to try, Sherlock would be interested in the psychological effects. Even Mycroft couldn’t -- and never wanted to -- comfort Sherlock with a brotherly embrace. He had never needed one in the past, when his father had announced that his mother would not be coming home, and he never asked for one since; but, as John knelt before Sherlock and bent forward to take Sherlock’s shoulders in his hands and pull him forward, Sherlock made no move to refuse.

He let his head fall forward onto John’s shoulder, wondering where he should put his hands while John pressed his hands against his shoulder blades and held him close.Sherlock decided that his hands were fine where they were in his lap, although his stomach felt strange; twisted and knotted in strange ways that made him feel nervous. Sherlock didn’t exactly hug people often, although hugging John was something that Sherlock felt was enjoyable. He could imagine hugging John every day, waking up to roll over in his bed to turn his nose into John’s hair; Sherlock’s breath caught. Those kinds of thoughts did not come to him; he was often told that he was not the kind of person who would ever want something like that. But, if he wanted John, would that be wrong?

“You are ridiculous.” John hummed into his curls, patting his back as if he were a sniveling child. “You are just… so strange. I’ve been waiting for you, Sherlock; not your mother.”

John’s voice was soothing, and he focused on that instead of his scrambled thoughts while he inhaled the peppermint scent that seemed to be John’s alone. No matter how many times he told himself that several people might smell like peppermint, the sentimental hallways in his mind palace seemed to have been opened, and John’s scent was forever his own, and no one else’s.

“I just thought,” Sherlock felt John release him and sit back, settling down on the floor in front of him with a calmer smile that reflected a lightening mood and release of irritation fueled tension. Smiling in return, Sherlock shrugged off his confused thoughts with a dismissive wave of his hand in John’s direction. “I was just worried that you might,”

“Oh, diddums.” John crooned, shaking his head with a soft giggle. Sherlock struggled with himself, but couldn’t force an angry glare to save his life, and ended up merely rolling his eyes in response. “It’s late, Sherlock; you need to go home, eat something, and go to bed.”

“Yes, yes. I’m going.”

Sherlock stood slowly, feeling the weight of his limbs grow normal beneath the scrutiny of gravity and his head resumed a manageable ache that would be taken care of with a few paracetamol when he was safely back inside the Summer Estate. John followed him quietly to the door, padding along until Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe with a crooked smile, glancing up at a late afternoon sky with soft white clouds milling through the air in no rush. John leaned on the side opposite Sherlock, looking up with him to watch the clouds mosey onward, congratulating his Deity with a smile that didn’t seem to want to leave his lips.

“Well done today, Sherlock. You’ve taken a huge step forward; I only wish that we’d thought of this earlier. Although, I could have done without your interrogation.”

“Me too,” Sherlock nodded with a tight lipped grin, slipping out of the doorway and starting on the trek back to the Summer Estate with his hands in his pockets and his heart in his throat. “I could have done without it, too. See you tomorrow, John.”

“See you tomorrow, Sherlock. Have a good night.”

 

 

 


	8. Come Home (Part 1)

_I've tried more than once to cure this fear, but it seems that even the love of a goddess cannot heal the wounds of a broken heart, no matter how hard I may try._

Sherlock had more than several reasons to be leaf through the pages of his late mother's diary, but as he sat inside the Strange House with John next to him, he knew that the only reason he held it was to avoid the long dredge of boredom. Tapping along a page that described Mycroft's sleeping patterns and the variations of his dreams -- most of which described his own death, which concerned his mother -- The dark haired teen mildly monitored John as he braided together the frayed strings of his worn school jumper.

"John," Sherlock flipped through the diary, landing on one of his favorite pages: the one that described John's dreams about the sun. "Do you like dreaming of the sun?"

John hummed something quietly and smoothed his hand over the strings he'd pulled from the cuff of Sherlock's sleeve. It was early afternoon, and a shy sun was peeking out from behind heavy rainclouds. Sherlock looked at a stray beam of sunlight that slipped in through the open window as John thought, watching it slide across the floor until the clouds snuffed out the light and blocked out the sun. 

"I suppose so. It's the closest thing to the gods, in accordance to the sky, so..." John shrugged next to Sherlock, licking his lips and turning to catch his Deity's eye with a smile. "It's a nice experience, in a way. A dream of when I was created."

This sparked Sherlock's interest; they had taken a few minutes to rest after Sherlock had lost his footing during their exercise of Sherlock reading dreams. John would insist that Sherlock had become too dizzy to continue, telling Sherlock that he shouldn't try push himself when it came to stretching his own consciousness around someone else's. 'It could be dangerous, Sherlock.' He had said with a smile, setting him down on the staircase and plucking at the loose strings on his sleeve. Feeling his lips curl around a smile, Sherlock pinched the corner of a page in the diary, and nonchalantly pushed it over, paper over binding until there was nothing to see. Blank pages; his mother's absence leaving him with nothing to see. 

"Your creation?" Sherlock wondered aloud. "You weren't born? Explain it; I want to understand it."

At this command, John's smile seemed to drift farther than where he was with Sherlock as he turned to look out the window with a carefully guarded expression. His fingers fidgeted with the ring on his right hand, catching the sun in the metal and casting it across the floor with a turn of his wrist.

"Every coming of a new season," John licked his lips and nodded to himself, as if to guarantee that he was saying the right things. "The Gods grant the earth a certain well of life; some parts of the earth, or gods that govern over different patterns of weather, use this to change the patterns in their favor. Other places have no gods to govern their weather, and no desire to change it; this is when Sentries are born. They are born of the earth, wherever the excess of life may be."

John smiled at the floor before blinking away the lost look in his eyes and glancing at Sherlock with a casual quirk if his eyebrows and a shrug.

"Most Sentries are born in forests, where humans can't contaminate or interrupt the process of a Sentry gaining life. That is to say, most Sentries are born fairly easily. The earth merely discharges the extra life it was granted, and the resulting Sentry guards whatever it was born of; Earth Sentries, Tree Sentries, and Wind Sentries are the most common by the records of the Gods.”

Sherlock found the topic amusing, but fascinating at the same time. Shutting his mother's diary and turning his body to face John, the dark haired teen watched his blue eyes expectantly. John laughed in response, propping his elbow atop his knee and resting his chin in his palm.

"There are probably many more Unclaimed Sentries than there are Claimed, but that's all well and done. Towards the empty mid-centuries of our lives, we being to look for danger, and in turn, we look to give our loyalty to a God or Goddess." John's smile melted into something more thoughtful and melancholic. "Some Sentries don't make it that far, having their lifesource destroyed or being killed themselves through unlucky happenstance. But, like Deities and Gods, Sentries are not mortal; this doesn't mean we're as important," John chuckled, "no, this just means that we're not human, and therefore do not obeys the laws of their life."

Sherlock scowled; he thought that John was extremely important. More important than Mrs. Hudson, and definitely more important than Mycroft, John was a creature of interest that never seemed to fail to gain his attention. However, the idea of John ceasing to exist because of a lost lifesource made Sherlock uneasy. Pressing the pads of his fingers together and steepling his hands beneath his chin, the Deity gave John a look that depicted hesitant interest.

"How would one destroy a lifesource?"

            Leaning back, John licked his lips and tapped the palms of his hands on the tops of his knees, tiptoeing around the idea of telling Sherlock the easiest way for him to die. It was a tense subject, Sherlock knew, but that didn’t stop him from wanting the facts; his mother had taught him for a young age to explore every possibility of something, and until every possibility was ruled out, anything was possible.

“As I said, most Sentries are born of the earth, air, or trees; this means their lives around rooted to that place where the air was pure enough to give them life, or the earth and trees were well enough to do the same. If you destroy that place, pollute the air, cut down the tree, and upheave the earth enough to kill the nutrients and life within it, the Sentry will die with it.”

            Sherlock’s long fingers tapped the cover of his book, absorbing the knowledge quickly and storing it away for future use while he watched John carefully.

“But, you were born a ‘Sun Sentry’.”

John nodded. “That’s true.”

“This means you were born from the Sun, yes?”

“That’s what the name implies, isn’t it?”

            Scowling again, Sherlock took up his mother’s diary, which he had taken from his room after he noticed Mycroft poking around in his things, and hid it in the Strange House and turning through a few pages with a sharp eye. Landing on a page that he'd skimmed over before, Sherlock stabbed the parchment with his index finger and read aloud:

“ _‘John enjoys dodging questions that he doesn’t like to answer,’ ”_ Sherlock gave the Sentry a knowing quirk of his eyebrow, running the tip of his tongue over his teeth as the blonde looked up to the ceiling and shook his head with a smile colored sigh. “ _‘he reminds me of my own sons in this way, always wanting to keep secrets even if he knows that I will discover them eventually.’”_

            Pushing the cover back until it hit the paper with a sorrowful slap, Sherlock drilled a skillful glare into the middle of John’s forehead. He had used this stare on John more than once when he wanted something, like it he wanted to see John deploy his light, or if he wanted John to tell him something about when he was younger. The blonde’s smile threatened to crack his cheeks in half while he gazed meaninglessly toward the ceiling, as if it might save him from Sherlock’s stare. It was a smile that made Sherlock envious.

He had been jealous before when Phillip Anderson had brought a new chemistry set to class, Sherlock had knocked it off of the desks and onto the floor -- much to his mother’s discretion. A girl in his classroom, Sally Donovan, had gotten a new coat that flared out about her knees almost exactly the same way his own coat did, and he set fire to it whilst no one was looking-- much to his own enjoyment. There were more examples of jealousy that came to Sherlock’s mind, but they all seemed irrelevant when it came to being jealous of John’s smile.          

            The smile that adorned his face seemed to light the room with the same glow that was John’s own, outranking every other task that was at hand and gaining all importance when Sherlock wasn’t use to giving his attention away. A smile like John’s was one that Sherlock had never seen before, and he had always had a knack for noticing small things and qualities that defined people. But, Sherlock was always happy to admit that he was ready for a challenge.

“Well, aren’t we being snarky this afternoon?” John pat his palm atop his white cloth covered thigh, tilting his head and rolling his eyes at Sherlock. “Maybe you’re in a bad mood because you haven’t eaten; we’ve been doing well with our exercises today. Go home and rest for a bit.”

            Heaving a sigh that echoed off of the Strange House’s walls, Sherlock rolled his shoulders back, hearing a satisfying crack before he gave a droll response.

“I might be angry because you have been making me eat more in one week than I normally eat in a total of three months.” Pushing his fingers through his hair, Sherlock glared at John. “What have you done to me?” The words felt wrong as soon as they left Sherlock’s mouth, and he’d never regretted saying something so quickly, say for the first big argument he had with John. John opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a flustered Sherlock. “I might eat today if you come with me.”

John licked his lips as his eyebrows turned down into a frown. Sherlock could imagine that John was sifting through his past conversations with his Deity, searching for an excuse not to leave the house that he hadn’t used in the past. Judging from the light tremor in his hands when he rubbed his palms together and the way his eyes focused strongly on the front door, Sherlock concluded that John couldn’t find a good reason.

            Hoping to push John into submission, Sherlock tried to think back to the useless sociology classes that he had taken; he had to make this seem logical to a young man like John. If he could make John feel guilty or responsible for something, the Deity could use it to his own advantage.

“John, if you don’t come with me today, I might as well not go.” John’s blue eyes shattered with frantic worry, rattling Sherlock’s thoughts as John turned to him sharply. “Mycroft is getting nosy, what with all of my excursions away from the Summer Estate, and,”

John leaned forward, shaking his head fervently. “You haven’t technically left. This is part of the Summer Estate.”

“I understand that.” Sherlock said slowly, struggling to keep seven snide remarks to himself while John was in his fragile, shaken state. “But, I’m not in the house. Putting it simply, I can’t quite tell him the truth, or, logically, he’ll think I’ve gone absolutely insane.” Sherlock folded his hands together and bit back his smile as John’s resolve began to crack. “I need to have a reason, and proof to back it up since Mycroft won’t back off of my excuses.”

            Pursing his lips, John drilled a painful glare into the doorframe as he thought. Sherlock rolled his eyes; if anything in this house was predictable, it was John’s ability to dodge the invitations to come to the Summer Estate. With or without his sociology classes, Sherlock doubted that he could understand John’s personable, jittery nature without the aid of a normal, non-sociopathic human. Mycroft, the privacy invading beetle that he was, was out of the question. Then, Sherlock thought to himself, Mrs. Hudson ought to do the trick. She knew about John first, and had been worried about his reclusive tendencies for the past ten years.

“Well.” Sherlock slapped his palms atop his knees and stood, stretching his arms up above his head in a final manner. “If you aren’t willing to keep your Deity out of trouble, I guess that’s your choice isn’t it?”

John worried his lower lip while he nodded, melting the discomfort in his expression into his easy smile. Sherlock frowned and moved through the doorway, hearing the latch click and the lock catch behind him as he headed toward the Summer Estate.

The thin forest the wrapped itself around the Estate was humming with life, giving Sherlock a reason to pause and watch the leaves rustle happily. With John’s explanation of the life sources that were commonplace in the world, Sherlock wondered how many Sentries had once lived in the forest of the Summer Estate, and how many had been killed by a thoughtless gardener pulling away and poisoning plants, or a city worker cutting down an old tree.

Sherlock liked dark topics; ones that explained how a man could die due to too much of a certain drug or alcohol, or how to identify the cause of death if a person had been strangled or suffocated; but when the topic was something that involved John’s entire species, it made him feel as if the ground was out of balance. He was tilting much farther than the small hill he was on should have inclined; he was being dragged down to the earth with several unfavorable possibilities of John’s death. Although, if John was born from the sun, it was entirely unlikely that his life source could be destroyed.

Nodding to himself, Sherlock decided that John was not going to die any time soon, and that he needed to worry on more important things at the moment. Stepping into the Summer Estate kitchen, Sherlock was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson at the dining table with a cup of tea in her left hand and a horrendous looking book that was entitled ‘The Gardeners Exploits’ in her right. Setting her cup down, Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows at the teen in front of her with a smile.

“You’re back early. Did John push you out of the house again, dear?”

            Huffing unhappily, Sherlock shrugged loosely enough for Mrs. Hudson to watch him with skeptical eyes as he made a round through the kitchen. Whether or not he told Mrs. Hudson, it was a well-known fact that he was a professional sulker. Every other day he would lounge about the kitchen with a scowl on his face, grumbling about something John had either said or done. Martha Hudson was not a fool, especially when it came to the blunt topic of Sherlock and his attitude. Plucking her bookmark from its place on the dining table and sliding it between the pages she was reading, she sat back in her chair and eyed Sherlock as he tapped his fingers along the surface of the counter.

“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, smoothing her hair behind her ear as Sherlock hummed hollowly in response. “Are you and John having a bit of a tiff?”

“No.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “We are not.”

            The housekeeper took a deep breath, pursing her lips while Sherlock glared at the empty sink. With a lighter heart than that of the one resting in Sherlock’s chest, Mrs. Hudson was a woman who found joy in caring for his heavy heart. Brushing off the top of her lavender colored skirt, Mrs. Hudson stood and headed for the refrigerator.

“Then, there must be something wrong.” Sherlock watched the older woman take out sliced pieces of ham and cheese before setting them on the counter. “Don’t try to deny it; I know you think that you’re a genius,”

“I am.”

“Yes, well… the point is, even if I’m not a genius, I know that you’re really bothered by something. So, let’s hear it. What happened with you and John?”

            Sherlock frowned, turning over the idea of simply asking Mrs. Hudson for the secret to getting John to leave the Strange House and coming back to the Summer Estate. If he were to ask, she would go into a predictable question of his methods and reasons to asking, which would merely be tedious. He just wanted to know how to give John the most logical reasoning for him to stay at the Summer Estate without the Sentry trying to make up another random rationalization to stay.

“He’s being… difficult. Which is stupid. I’m the smart one, and he should know that I know best.”

“Oh, of course. You ‘know best’.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes when Mrs. Hudson draws quotation marks in the air sarcastically before returning her attention to the bread she was no doubt using make sandwiches for the Deity and his Sentry. She glanced up at him, just to monitor his progression around the kitchen slowly before he fell gracelessly into a chair around the dining table.

“He should just come here.” Sherlock huffed with a flick of his wrist to indicate the Summer Estate in all its glory. “I don’t know why he’s being so...”

“Difficult.” Sherlock snorted at her finishing his sentence, but made no move to disagree. Mrs. Hudson sighed, placing two pieces of cheese on the bread in front of her before reaching for the ham. “Have you ever thought of appealing to his more human side?” Mrs. Hudson paused to give him a look that held humor in her blue irises. “Of course, if you know how to do such a thing.” Sherlock glared at the table while he tapped his feet on the wooden floors, obviously agitated and eager to do something; Martha sighed. “Why don’t you make it clear that you want him here, and that him being here is good for him? It’s not good for him to be locked up in that house all alone; he needs companionship just as much as you do.”

            Sherlock groaned, throwing his hands up in the air in a display of despair before dropping them to cover his eyes.

“I’ve tried all of that.”

“Really?” Mrs. Hudson finished making the first sandwich and moved on to the next. “Have you tried using your knowledge of his loneliness?”

“Yes, I did that last week.” Sherlock slid his hands back to massage his temples.

“Did you try to guilt him into it?”

“Yes, yes…” He began to dig his fingernails into his skin as Mrs. Hudson neatly tucked the sandwiches onto a plate.

“Did you say something clever about Mycroft?”

“Yes! Today! I’ve tried everything, and nothing will work.” He growled as his head started to throb from his sharp fingernails.

“Did you try to order him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sat up, and turned in his chair to stare at the older woman. “No. No, I haven’t.”

            With a smile, Mrs. Hudson took the plates up from the counter and brought them to rest on the surface of the dinner table. Sherlock sat expectantly, waiting for the key to ordering John into something without tripping some switch that would make him angry or upset. Smoothing down her skirt once more, the landlady sat down in her chair and picked up her book.

“You’re some sort of demi-god, aren’t you? Use that to your advantage; from what your mother told me, John is supposed to listen to your every…”

“Yes; thank you. Thank you!”

            Bolting up from his chair, Sherlock ignored the sandwich in favor of returning to the Strange House. The side door swung open in a wide arc, hitting the wall behind it with a solid crack before bouncing forward again in Sherlock’s wake. As he left, Mrs. Hudson opened her book and began from where she left off.

“Don’t mention it, dear.”

            Sherlock could hear the silence breaking apart as he stepped quickly into the Strange House; John’s breath caught as he jumped up from his place on the steps, and the air crackled with sound as dust was swept up and moved by the newly opened door. The Deity felt as if he’d already won; like he’d gained something incredibly powerful in comparison to John’s weak defenses, and he could finally defeat John in their delicate battle of wits.

“John,” He huffed; he had run from the house, and was out of breath. Taking slow gulps of air, Sherlock regarded the way John watched him carefully with his arms outstretched, ready to catch him if need be. “John, I order you.” John’s jaw dropped, and he took quick steps forward with his hands coming up to Sherlock’s face, as if to stop him from revealing his order; Sherlock didn’t give him the chance, ducking away from John’s searching fingers and letting the words drip from his mouth like honey. “I order you to come stay at the Summer Estate.”

            With that, the broken silence mended the torn seams and righted itself into completion once more, leaving the once noisy Strange House with an unnerving kind of quiet. It was unimportant now, the vast majority of John’s past excuses; none of them mattered anymore. It was an order from a higher commanding officer, and John was a compliant soldier ready to listen and obey. John’s expression crumbled into something Sherlock could easily associate with confused frustration.

“Order?” Sherlock nodded, and John made a face. “Sherlock, orders are serious things. An order mustn’t be taken lightly, and you know I won’t, but… if you order me to, I will come to the Summer Estate.”

            Yes, this was what Sherlock had wanted all along; for John to stop dodging the idea of longer lesson times in simpler, homier settings. At least, Sherlock assumed that was what he wanted; there were all sorts of things he wanted to do with John. He wanted to wake up and know that John was there in the house with him, he wanted to sit down at the breakfast table with him, and share stupid social interactions with him in the hallway like Mrs. Hudson had with the groundskeeper. Surely, lessons and experiments could be fit in the grand scheme of things in some way or another.

“I know it’s a serious thing. That’s why I’m ordering you.”

John sighed, lifting his shoulders in a vague attempt to try and fight him, then dropped them in defeat. Sherlock had won this round with his superior breeding.

“Fine. I will stay in the Summer Estate until you instruct me otherwise.”

            There was a smile on Sherlock’s face, he was almost sure of it, but he couldn’t quite acknowledge it as John promptly turned and marched his bare feet out of the Strange House and into the long grass of the property.

“John?” Sherlock followed at a brisk pace, ducking under low hanging tree branches as John continued down the hill toward the Summer Estate without pause.  “John, you can’t be mad at me. This is for your own good, you know. Trust me, I’m a genius. I know these things.”

“Of course, Sherlock.”

“John.” They were almost to the kitchen door, and Sherlock felt the logical, realistic side of his brain trip and spring into action alongside the headstrong, wild side of his brain: Mycroft didn’t know who John was, yet. “John, I need time to plan out how you’ll stay here. I need to,”

“I don’t have a choice, Sherlock. I’m following the order of a Deity, just as a Sentry should.”

            John reached for the doorknob and Sherlock swatted his hand away, feeling the heated agitation of John’s mood through his burning skin. The blonde raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock felt his mind racing away from John’s reaction to focus on other things. More important things, he assured himself.

“I… I only need a moment.” Something will have had to happen to John’s parents, otherwise he wouldn’t be coming to stay with Sherlock. Both of them couldn’t have died, because John would have been taken in by other family or shoved into a foster home or orphanage; a neglecting father or mother, perhaps? “Just let me think, John.”

“You don’t understand, Sherlock. I have to go inside soon, or the oath I made to your mother will become warped and worn; the Claim she put on me will no longer be viable.”

            John started to open the door, but Sherlock slammed it shut by leaning all of his weight against it. An abusive father and a dead or runaway mother should do the trick; they would have met somewhere believable, somewhere that Sherlock would actually be willing to go; a library would be simple enough. But how would Mycroft react to Sherlock extending an invitation for John to stay there, and what if he rejected the thought of John staying?

“Sherlock,”

“Let me finish!”

“Think while we’re inside; there’s no time left to dilly-dally.”

            With that, John used Sherlock’s weight against him, hooking his left foot behind Sherlock’s right foot and pulling it forward to throw him off balance. With a solid hand against his chest, John held Sherlock up while he opened the door, revealing a wide-eyed Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock stumbled away from John, pushing the Sentry back only to have him step closer again to put himself over the threshold of the house.

“My, my… no time left to dilly-dally, is there?” Sherlock glared at the table – at Mycroft – while John thinned his lips and dropped his gaze to Sherlock’s shoes. “Why is that?” Mycroft leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together and giving Sherlock a well-worn smile. “I wonder…”


	9. Come Home (Part 2)

            With a hard glare at Mycroft, Sherlock assessed the different ways that the conversation could go; John would flounder beneath the weight of his brother’s words, but would no doubt struggle against the older Holmes if it meant keeping to Sherlock’s order. Pushing the door shut behind him, Sherlock did not trust Mycroft enough to look away, holding his slippery person in his chair with nothing but his penetrating stare.

            Mycroft sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile, as if he’d caught Sherlock with his hand in the cookie jar. Sherlock hated that look; as if he had any right to look at him that way. Mycroft had looked at him like that ever since they were children; when Sherlock would dip his hands into Mummy’s liquid paints and throw them down on the floor out of boredom: Mycroft would find him, and give him that smug expression. When Sherlock had tried to climb a tree to reach a dead bird that was caught on a high hanging branch and fallen, resulting in a cracked rib and a dislocated shoulder: Mycroft told Mummy, and while Sherlock was being loaded into the car by his Father’s rough hands, Mycroft would smile ever so slightly, just so Sherlock would know that he’d done something idiotically wrong. When Sherlock had tried to use some of the cleaning chemicals to erase a stain he had put on the carpet only to mix the wrong two together and give the carpet acidic burns: Mycroft stood in the door with his arms folded superiorly over his chest, watching him with that condescending quirk of his eyebrow.

            Sherlock hated that look.

“So, brother dear,” Mycroft said slowly, as if his words were made of honey and deserved to take their time in being delivered. Sherlock ground his teeth together with a sour expression; he was only his half-brother. Not that he’d tell Mycroft; Mycroft already knew. “Who might the young man behind you be?”

            Tucking his hands away in his pockets, Sherlock rolled his shoulders back to hear the pleasant click of his joints popping as he wandered about the kitchen. John stayed by the door, demure and very human in the presence of Sherlock’s half-relative. Whether or not Mycroft wanted an answer, Sherlock didn’t feel like answering; the longer he sat and ignored his brother, the more he could think of John’s story. The elder Holmes didn’t give Sherlock that chance though, speaking up just enough to make the demand sound louder, just in case John couldn’t quite hear him.

“What is your name, and why are you in my house?”

“ _Our_ house.” Sherlock corrected just before John could let the question sink into his brain. “It’s our house, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gave him a thin smile, his eyes reflecting a dangerous type of annoyance.

“You are not old enough to claim your part of the deed, Sherlock. Until then,” The russet haired Holmes turned his steeled gaze back to John. “What is your name, and why are you in my house?”

“My name is John, Mr. Holmes… John Hamish Watson.”

The Sentry answered without missing a beat. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, wondering where John had thought of his middle and last names. Mycroft, however, took the name with ease as he sat forward in his chair once more, resting his folded hands atop the surface of the table while Mrs. Hudson shifted nervously in her chair next to him.

“A pleasure, Mr. Watson. I am Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft Holmes. What brings you to my house, this afternoon?”

            John glanced in Sherlock’s direction, and the Deity inwardly winced; looking to Sherlock was a sign of weakness, or a sign that he was doing something wrong. Sherlock let his stare fall through John’s crystalline blue eyes without a hitch in his breath or a falter in his posture. The Sentry looked back to Mycroft, then let his eyes fall down to the floor, where they had been when Mycroft had first spoke. Sherlock blinked; John had a plan.

“I… it’s a long story, Mr. Holmes.” Good lord, John had made a plan in advance. “You see, my father is… well, after my mum died…” John had known that Sherlock would con him or trick him or order him into the Summer Estate; he’d been ready. “He just wasn’t the same. I used to spend a lot of my time outside and around town, just to get out of the house, you know? That’s how I met Sherlock… he was walking around the town, and I just happened to bump into him. Just by chance, actually.” Sherlock’s lips curled up into a smile despite himself; John had known, all along. He was keeping his contract with Sherlock’s mother, using all of his extra time in the Strange House to plan for this moment. “It was just lucky that we met.”

“Is it, now?”

            Mycroft brought the palms of his hands together in front of his face, holding the tips of his fingers to his lips much like Sherlock liked to when he was thinking. Mycroft’s face was a tricky setup of invitations; if John said something slightly strange, the older Holmes would pounce on it, no doubt. Sherlock wished that he could tell John this, just to warn him to pick his words carefully. John nodded at Mycroft, lifting a hand to smooth the front of his gleaming white shirt before returning it to his side as he lifted his eyes to regard the older Holmes evenly.

“Yes, sir. Your brother is a very unique person.” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at that remark, and John went on without a break in tone. “He walked with me for several days, just filling up the time with silly things.” Sherlock hardly thought that what they had practiced in the Strange House was ‘silly’, but this was John’s story, and Sherlock wasn’t about to interrupt. “Before I knew it, we were friends. Strange how that happens sometimes; you think you don’t really know someone, and then you feel like you’ve know them since Primary School.”

The Dream Deity was certain that John hadn’t even attended Primary School, but again, he didn’t dare interrupt as Mycroft gave an affirmative hum. John’s story took on a heavier setting as the Sentry’s blue eyes darkened with something that Sherlock assumed was guilt or regret. In this case, Sherlock wanted to say that it was guilt over lying to Mycroft, but he didn’t step in; John still had more of his story.

“My dad’s been drinking a lot more, now. It’s gotten to the point that he gets mad when I come into the house, and I just,”

“Why?”

John blinked, and Sherlock locked his jaw to keep from snapping at his brother.

“I’m… sorry? What do you mean?”

“Why does your father become angry when you step into the house?”

Licking his lips, John smiled bashfully. “I look a lot like my mum.” Sherlock exhaled slowly; John really did have a plan, but Mycroft wasn’t going to let it go very far. “He was mad that she left us… she just got sick, and couldn’t get better. My dad never did really accept it.”

“I see.” Mycroft flattened his palms against the table and gave Sherlock a sharp look before glancing at John from underneath his drawn down eyebrows. “And you thought the remedy to an alcoholic father was to run away to a strangers’ home to hide?”

            There is was, the ace up Mycroft’s sleeve; condescension. It was Mycroft’s best quality when it was good for Sherlock – like if he needed it to get out of trouble in school – but otherwise, he hated his brother for it. John’s eyelids fluttered shut, and he turned his face to the wall, as if he could pretend that Mycroft hadn’t said anything, but Sherlock could see the underlying tension in John’s frame. He could see the golden skin was tight over muscles in his forearms and his hands were in anxious fists; if John wanted to punch Mycroft and be done with it, Sherlock wouldn’t hold him back.

“I just thought,”

“You just thought? In my opinion, Mr. Watson, you didn’t think that move through. Much less, your story. When you opened that door, you said there was no time to dilly-dally. Why is that? Is it because you’re running from something a little more serious than an angry father?”

            John sighed; it was a cream colored sigh, sweetened with his faulty sunshine smile and a slight shake of his head. It was a sigh that made John look as if he had already won the argument; shaking his head the way he did, as if Mycroft had made a terribly wrong observation, and it was funny in the way that an infant would mistake a circle for a square. With his eyes still on the wall, John’s spoke quickly and quietly.

“You know what it is, Mr. Holmes, to be forgotten.” Mycroft sputtered for a second before John quickly continued. “Sherlock told me about how your father was cruel to you in his own way; it may not be the same thing, but I can relate.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Being forgotten by someone you want to know badly as your own family… it’s a sad thing. It’s sad, but… not as sad as other things. It’s why we stand up, and why we walk away. It’s why you’re so logical, it’s why Sherlock is so feisty; you don’t want to be like him, squandering away your time on something that really isn’t worthwhile.”

John let out a huff of air before licking his bottom lip with a smile. It was a side of John that Sherlock had seen in John’s dreams; a sad, logical side that knew that Danabell didn’t love him as much as she loved Sherlock or Mycroft. It was the side of John that wanted to be seen and loved like a son, but never was. Mrs. Hudson sniffled and Mycroft’s scowl deepened.

“I can leave, Mr. Holmes, but do you really want that? I know that you’re a smart man, and I’m sure you have all sorts of reasons that you _could_ throw me out this instant, but you haven’t. It’s because you know that when I said ‘there’s no time to dilly-dally’, I said it for a good reason. You know I did.” John was on a roll, smiling through a broken speech that he had obviously been prepared to tell someone for years, but never found the time. “I have no time left to waste in that house. I have no time left to pretend to be noticed and needed there. Living alone in a world where you thought you were surrounded by love… it’s a frightening way to live, Mr. Holmes.” John’s breath caught, but he didn’t stop, he merely smiled through all of his words just like he always did with me. Sherlock felt smile grow for some reason; was it for his pride in John, or in his honesty? “Even though I was afraid to leave that whole life behind, Sherlock pushed me into leaving; so, I think I’m ready now.”

John drew in a cleansing breath, his eyes wide with release as he smiled at Sherlock, rather than at Mycroft.

“I’m so ready to leave that house, Mr. Holmes. I’m so ready to live on my own time, instead of on my father’s borrowed time; I’m here where Sherlock said I could be, where Sherlock said I could live. I’m here to live in my own way, on my own time. Rather than be alone, I’ll have my first true friend by my side, Mr. Holmes.” John turned his smile on Mycroft, who was working his jaw sulkily in his chair. “I’m so ready to live, Mr. Holmes, and I’d like to live here, if that’s alright with you, of course.”

            If Sherlock had ever seen his half-brother glare at anyone like he had glared at John in that moment, he would’ve assumed that the person was about to be taken away by a special branch of the British government to be ‘studied’ for the rest of their days. John, however, was as lucky as they come, and Mycroft made no move to take his cellphone from his pocket to call the armed forces to take John away.

“Well,” Mycroft glanced at Mrs. Hudson for a moment before smoothing his already smooth hair with a sweep of his hand. “It seems my brother has already extended an invitation for you to stay, hasn’t he?”

            Smirking with his crooked smile, Sherlock allowed Mycroft to burn his stare into him. It wasn’t often that Sherlock offered to give people things, and when he did, it was to offer advice that people didn’t want, like how to get their parents to stop cheating on each other with the same man, or that they shouldn’t reproduce because their genes would contaminate the gene pool. John was different, though; if it meant helping John, Sherlock felt almost sure that he’d do anything.

“Yes, it seems I have.”

            Grinding his teeth together, Mycroft looked to Mrs. Hudson for a logical refusal, but she didn’t give one. She merely smiled and fluttered her hand over her lips as she looked between Sherlock and John. It was too late for Mycroft to attempt to recruit the kind woman for his cause; John had won her over years earlier and ensured her allegiance in this moment. Mycroft sighed crossly as he stood up.

“Very well. How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Watson?”

“Just for the summer.” Sherlock intercepted, glancing at John before continuing. “If he needs to stay somewhere longer… we’ll figure it out as we go.”

“Yes. You always were good at making up things as you go… like excuses.” Mycroft sneered, watching Sherlock’s stony smile carefully before moving to the door. “I’d like a cup of coffee in the drawing room, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’m not your waitress, dear.”

The housekeeper called after him, though she stood up to retrieve a cup for the older Holmes. John and Sherlock looked to each other for a moment before John’s smile cracked open wide in a bout of breathless laughter. Sherlock’s laugh followed, lower in pitch and setting John’s laughter on a higher scale of importance in the room, as if he lit up the air with his laughter, just by being who he was.

It was perfect, having John so close. Sherlock would wake up, and John would be right there, not so far away, and not nearly as alone. The Deity was sure that their friendship would only grow stronger, and more trusting as time went on, giving the new living arrangements a large role in that growth. They would no doubt grow closer because of it, being so close every morning, every night; waking up and going to sleep knowing they were a hallway; a room; a door away. Closer and closer, until no space would be left… Sherlock blinked through a huff of laughter, giving John a quick once over; why did he think these things about John? Closer and closer; Sherlock wondered if John ever thought the same things; most likely not, since John was more attuned to the socially and sentimentally correct.

“So, boys.” Mrs. Hudson set Mycroft’s ready cup of coffee to the side of the counter, giving the teens a smile and raised eyebrow. “Who’s hungry?”

            John and Sherlock – neither of them knowing why – looked at each other, and seeing the other’s flushed cheeks, started to laugh all over again.

 

+++++

 

“Mrs. Hudson said that this used to be my Father’s study.”

            Sherlock muttered with a smile as he and John spread themselves out on the carpeted floor with his mother’s diary and several blankets laid out underneath them. John hummed quietly, glancing out at the window to see the glass panes covered in large drops of rain. They had been holed up in the study almost the entire afternoon, talking about his mother’s diary and different stories that Sherlock could still remember.

“I’m glad I’m allowed to stay here, but…” John looked forlornly at the window seat that was covered in a sheet and done up like a cocoon of down blankets; a makeshift bed. “Your brother went to the extremes to keeping me as far away from you as possible.”

            Sherlock scoffed, turning a page in his mother’s diary to see the first blank piece of parchment; nothingness all written out on the page for him to wonder what could’ve come next. Shrugging, Sherlock rolled onto his back and folded his hands beneath his head.

“You’re on the other side of the house, right next to the kitchen.” He stated tersely. “You _are_ as far as you could possibly be from my _bedroom_ ; but I’m not going to stay in my own bedroom all day long. I’d hang myself if I had nothing to do all day.” John chuckled. “It would be so boring without you.”

            From his lax position on the floor, Sherlock could see the way John stretched his arms above his head and twisted his torso to and fro. It was odd to see his Sentry stretching out like a cat in the sun, but it wasn’t odd to notice that subtle way John’s skin glowed against the orange flames of the fireplace before them. The flames reflected John’s light, licking at the shadows that would attempt to eat away at John’s light and burning them away as more would appear in their wake. Sherlock smiled; it was so easy to sit with John. He didn’t want to say anything to break up the silence, and John seemed to echo that air, eyeing the fire with minute interest before lying himself back down onto the blankets next to Sherlock and closing his eyes.

            John’s warmth traveled through the blankets as he laid his golden crown of hair down, closing his eyes against the late evening and Sherlock both. Sherlock could feel the heat soaking through the quilt on which he currently resided, making him feel smothered and bothered. He rolled onto his side, propping his chin in his palm as his elbow acted as an anchor to the ground. John was laid out across the blankets on his front with his arms folded as a pillow beneath his head, the depiction of a Sentry in repose. The glow of his skin never left, even after his awareness had faded down to nothing but his body’s instinct to sleep while he could.

“It’s easy isn’t it?” The Deity murmured, watching as John’s eye cracked open to see Sherlock look at the hand that wasn’t holding him up. “You don’t even think about it.”

            John sighed into the blankets, letting his blue eyes flutter shut before turning his face into the fabric beneath him and yawning. Sherlock watched as John’s lips parted around the deep breath, memorizing the way his hands curled and fisted in the blankets and the way his shouldered flexed under the bland white shirt he wore before John melted back into his lightly tired pose. His face turned back to regard Sherlock with an easy smile, his blue eyes tinted a strange combination of fire and ice by the flames that were mirrored in his irises.

“I was born believing in it. I didn’t have to look into myself to believe; it was always just… _there_.” John yawned once more, covering his mouth with the back of one honey colored hand before letting it drop back to the blankets with another smile. “You taught yourself what I was born understanding; that takes a lot of patience and skill.”

Watching John from underneath his brunneous fan of eyelashes, Sherlock observed as John’s eyelids drooped under his gaze, each blink coming slower as the fire crackled pleasantly in front of them. Not before long, John’s blinking stopped altogether and Sherlock was left with an open hand hanging in the air with nothing to do. Looking from his hand to John’s face, Sherlock debated reaching forward and finding the ring on John’s left hand that hid who he really was, or, what he really was. Rethinking this idea, Sherlock tucked his hand close to his chest, and let himself lie down on the blankets.

John was breathing deeply, as if the smell of the Holmes Estate was so pleasing, he needed to absorb it into his dreams; Sherlock wondered if such a thing was possible. If it were, Sherlock would absorb the peppermint smell of John’s breath; strange as it may have sounded to the everyday stranger, Sherlock knew that the smell of peppermint, however common it may be, was something special when it came to John. Shifting forward on the blanket covered floor, Sherlock closed his eyes as he came to a rest a mere two inches from John’s face, feeling the warmth, minty scent of John’s every breath haunt his dreams.

++++

From past experiences, Sherlock knew that dreams came to him often, and most of them left his memory quickly in the morning. Such dreams created the fleeting wish that sometime, somehow, one would slip into his mind and grip his consciousness, holding on as a true memory until even after he woke. Even though he wished for a dream that would linger in his mind, Sherlock didn’t think that a dream so vivid would linger quite so long. The dream was not a horrible fantasy, but a sickly twist on life that he wasn’t exactly sure he would endorse or not; and yet, it was a dream he would never deny dreaming twice.

It was warm. Almost too hot to be bearable, there in a bed while he was tangled in the sheets that were highlighted by the silky illumination of a fire. The flame that lit the room was nowhere to be found, hidden beneath layers of flesh and bone, nestled deep within Sherlock himself, and the person accompanying him in the tangle of limbs.

Hands – much too hot to be comfortable – were clasped around his wrists, sliding up his arms and gliding over his shoulders. Lips – parted around each startlingly warm, peppermint scented breath in tandem with his own – were held over his own mouth, choking on air as if there was too much moisture in the room to get a proper lungful of oxygen. Legs – twisted with his own legs and slick with sweat – trembled as the weight of a strange body was held on top of him. The hands on his shoulders spread out their fingers, ticking up the inches of Sherlock’s neck and holding the sides of his face so that he couldn’t pull away. Sherlock felt his body shaking with expectation, his arms rushing up to dig his fingernails into the warm – strangely warm – skin above him. It was the only way he could imagine it happening; the only physical contact he could live with, with the only person he could feel so drawn to in his life. Above him, the impossibly blue eyes above him fluttered shut as their bodies rocked against each other.

“John…”

 

+++++

 

Sitting up quickly, Sherlock felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face while his breath came to him in shallow gasps. The room was dark – the fire long dead through the night and now sitting in a sad display of ashes – say for the flickers of lightning that bathed the room in split second illumination before disappearing again as the rain fell in steadily against the glass of his window. Feeling much too hot, Sherlock looked about the room for some sort of rag he could use to wipe his brow, but only found the blankets on the ground tangled up beneath him and around John. He lifted the corner of one, and swiped it across his face.

It was not the first time he had dreamt of John in such a state; it had been happening for the past several nights, and, he would wake up with sticky bed sheets that made his cheeks burn with shame. Looking down at his trousers, Sherlock found comfort in the fact that this dream had only left him feeling painfully aroused and no more; John was still asleep and content on the floor, oblivious to the scandalous activities he had just been involved in during Sherlock’s dream. Sherlock watched him carefully, minding the rumbling of thunder and anticipating the lightning that would highlight his sleeping face.

With the strike of lighting connecting with the ground, Sherlock could see John’s serene expression against the blankets, and his eyelids fluttering through a dream as he slept. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to see what John was dreaming of; it was too much after his own dream to go and link their minds together as one. Feeling a wave of heat roll over his skin once more, Sherlock fell back against the blankets once more, turning away from John and biting his lower lip spotting his mother’s diary just in front of him. Scooting closer to read it slowly by the light of sporadic lightning, Sherlock smiled.

_Dreams are strange. They show us what we want, even if we don’t know that we want it, and they show us what we fear, even if we didn’t know that we were afraid of it. Even as the Goddess of Dreams, I can say that dreams are very strange, and, when well placed, beautifully accurate._


	10. To the City

                Morning was overshadowed by the heaviness of rain in the sky, giving the illusion that there was no such thing as a warm and sunny summer day at the Holmes Summer Estate. Sherlock sat in John’s window-seat made bed, watching the widow continue to keep out the rain that seemed to want to enter the home. It had been a long, aching night; after his dream, he struggled to sleep peacefully, much too afraid that he would wake up to find his trousers covered with evidence. It was odd to him, this type of fretful, fitful worrying; it seemed so mundane, and simply too _normal_. Then again, Sherlock had never had a dream like the ones he had with John before; perhaps John was changing him.

                These thoughts of change and worry had been circling for quite some time, and even though the sky had hardly changed since he and John had gone to sleep at night, Sherlock know it was morning. Giving John a sidelong glance, Sherlock noted that the Sentry had rolled over once more; that made seven times that John had moved over in his sleep. Four times he had moved over to where Sherlock had previously been located, and three to mark the times he had rolled back to his beginning position. Needless to say, Sherlock hadn’t slept, and had been watching John to see if he woke like Sherlock had – he hadn’t. Maybe something was wrong with him.

                Shaking his head to rid it of those thoughts, Sherlock slipped from the window seat and stepped over John’s legs en route to the door. He had gotten dressed hours ago whilst looking for something to do, and watching John had become a worthy use of time as he waited for John to wake up and give him something to do. The Sentry mumbled something incoherent in his sleep – for the thirteenth time – and Sherlock didn’t want to try to hear him clearly, opening the door and turning around the corner to enter the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was wide awake and at the table, sipping a cup of tea as she read a new book, another horrendous publication by the title ‘Peach Flavoured Sunset’ with several reviews from women adorning the back.

“Good morning, dear.”

                Sherlock grunted a short response, moving to the coffee pot and pouring himself a mug before listening to the sound of rain pelting the roof of the Summer Estate. The landlady asked him how he slept and he felt his ears burn as he took a sip of lukewarm coffee with a shrug. There was the rustling of paper for a moment before the questions were silenced and Mrs. Hudson returned to her book. Sherlock noted that his palms were clammy; perhaps it was the question of bringing up his dreams. Yes, being the son of the Goddess of Dreams was setting him on edge. Surely, it had nothing to do with the fact that his dream included a very promiscuous version of John in it; no, that wasn’t it. At least, that’s what Sherlock thought to himself as he smiled wryly into the rim of his cup. That wasn’t it…

                Sherlock felt the door to the kitchen open more than he heard it; the unmistakable warmth that radiated off of John wasn’t feverish with anger or irritation, but a calm kind of heat that he had felt many times when he visited John early in the morning. Steeling his calm demeanor, Sherlock turned and leaned back casually against the countertop as he watched John. John, in all his just woken up glory, looked straight to Sherlock – ignoring the perfectly friendly woman at the table – and smiled.

                His blonde hair was mussed just enough to be endearing and childish, framing his warm face that didn’t hold a hint of light. John had gotten used to suppressing it, Sherlock guessed, when Mrs. Hudson couldn’t quite understand the concept of a glowing Sentry at first; then, there was the added threat of Mycroft discovering his ability. Sherlock smiled in return, watching with bated breath as John squinted with a crumpled expression, then scrunched his eyes shut around a yawn, stretching his arms up to wake up his tired joints and muscles. As he lifted his golden arms, Sherlock could see a small rectangle strip of John’s torso, just as golden as the rest of his skin, say for the sparse trail of even lighter hair leading down… Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his cup up to his lips, taking a drink.

“Good morning, dear.” Mrs. Hudson chimed, earning a sweet response from John as he pulled out a chair and took a seat at one side of the table. Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, but if he had been, he was sure that John had said something absolutely charming about the rain or some such nonsense. “And how did you sleep, dear? Were you warm enough? Did you have enough blankets?”

“He had _all_ of the blankets, Mrs. Hudson.”

                Sherlock deadpanned, leaving John to chuckle nervously and agree with his Deity. The landlady asked a few more questions, none of which interested Sherlock until she set her book aside and leaned forward to tug at the sleeve of John’s white shirt.

“John… aren’t these the clothes you wore yesterday?” She gave Sherlock a sharp look and his brows knotted together in confusion; how was that his fault? “Why didn’t you lend him some pajamas, Sherlock?”

                Shrugging loosely, Sherlock came to sit next to John across the table from Mrs. Hudson, looking him up and down at the table before deeming him fine in what he was wearing. He had seen John in those clothes for more than a month, so the idea of him wearing them was fine. It wasn’t like John smelled bad, or he needed a shower; John always smelled like freshly mowed grass and looked like he bathed regularly, even if the Strange House didn’t have working water pipes or even a bathtub or shower for John to use.

“He said he didn’t want them, so logically, I didn’t give him any.”

                Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips against the snarky comment, standing up from her chair and moving around the table to wander to the refrigerator. John looked at Sherlock and shrugged as if to say ‘I don’t care either way’.

“Tea, John?”

Mrs. Hudson called, retrieving butter from the refrigerator and setting it next to the bread on the counter. Sherlock tilted his mug to and fro as John smiled at him, their eyes not leaving the others’.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

“Toast with it, yes?”

“I’d love to have some. Thank you.”

                Sherlock let his mug sit on the table alone, bringing up his elbow to rest it against the table while his chin was propped in his palm, watching John carefully. The Sentry smiled wider and cocked his head to the side ever so slightly, just enough for Sherlock to see him acting coy. Why was that? John didn’t know about the dream Sherlock had. Did he? Thinning his lips, Sherlock arched one thoughtful eyebrow while John sat quietly. It was like the night they first met: Sherlock studying John to know who and what he was while John merely smiled and allowed the investigation to carry through.

                Turning in his chair to face his entire body toward John, Sherlock let his mind wander through all he knew about John; there was too much information in his Mind Palace not being put into the correct places. He felt as if everything was in disarray, caught up in John’s whirlwind laughter and burning in the brightness of his smile. Acidic and sweet to the extreme, John’s words dripped through the information at his disposal, disintegrating what he thought was irrelevant and creating new, better information about John that was important in the highest.

                Running the edge of his tongue over the front of his teeth, Sherlock watched the tabletop as John took his tea from Mrs. Hudson with a polite ‘thank you’ and began to drink it with slow, easy sips. There was so much that he’d thought about saying to John, but none of it seemed important as the Sentry watched him with innocent curiosity. There were lessons he wanted to resume, and boundaries he wanted to push; just how close could he get to his dream without actually getting away with it? Sherlock felt his lips twist into a smile. Could he get away with it? John might not want that sort of thing; if there was anything Sherlock knew about John, it was that he was a boy of simple minded thoughts and not Sherlock’s own racing agenda.

                If John wanted anything, it was probably another Sentry like himself since he was so keen on telling Sherlock that he was under oath to help him and follow his order. The smile on Sherlock’s face faded; it made sense that John would want another Sentry, and most likely a girl. When Sherlock had learned all that he possibly could, would John just leave him, then? Would John even care that Sherlock wanted him to stay after their oath had become null and void?

“Maybe we should go shopping in the city.”

                Sherlock blinked up at Mrs. Hudson who sat in her chair with a passive expression on her face. Shopping? Sherlock himself hated shopping; there were too many data points to take in, let alone the endless rows of aisles that held nothing that he wanted. If there was something of value to be obtained – like a new electron transmission microscope – he would go and purchase it through the miracle of the worldwide web. He had no need for shopping, but John… Sherlock watched in fascination as John’s eyes grew wide and the temperature in the room kicked up a few degrees.

“The city?” He said, wetting his lips with his tongue with a smile. “You would go into the city?”

                Mrs. Hudson smiled, moving back to the table and setting John’s toast, slathered in some sort of jam, in front of him, followed by a steaming cup of tea. John thanked her and took a bite of the toast before turning back to Sherlock with a smile, claiming it was delicious. Sherlock nodded absently; John would always turn back to him, as if Mrs. Hudson had nothing to do with the conversation. Sherlock wasn’t even saying anything. John merely turned toward him with those impossibly blue eyes and waited for something incredible to happen; as if Sherlock was a magnetic field and John was a fork, the blonde was drawn to him. How forceful that draw was… Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

“Have you never been in the city, John?”

The Sentry shook his head, looking to the landlady with such a hopeful expression it made Sherlock cringe. John wanted to get out of the house, _badly_ ; he just never wanted to violate his contract.

“I was never allowed to leave that house, and now Sherlock has ordered me to stay here.” John turned his hopeful eyes on Sherlock, and the Deity deflated under the power of his own order. “Do… do you think that if you go to the city, if it’s alright with you, maybe I… I could come along?” John leaned forward, toward Sherlock and the Deity leaned back, the heat in the room was bumped up to a level that almost bordered uncomfortable, and Sherlock felt a bead of sweat forming on his brow. “I’ll be good, I promise! I am very well behaved; you know me. I’ll be quiet and I won’t get in the way, I’ll just be there for the experience. I won’t ask for anything.”

“The whole reason we’d be going is to get you some decent clothes, dear.”

                Mrs. Hudson puffed from across the table, fanning herself with her novel and complaining about the heat with a cross expression. John bowed his head with flushed cheeks before continuing with a calmer tone and a soothing loss of extreme heat in the room.

“I don’t need anything. I’m fine with what I’m wearing. But Sherlock, if you maybe want to get something in the city, I still… if I could come with you, that would be,”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was you, Mr. Watson.”

                Sherlock glared at his older brother as he stepped into the kitchen in a crisp and freshly pressed suit. Mycroft’s fingers smoothed the front of his unwrinkled suit before stepping forward and taking up a cup of tea Mrs. Hudson no doubt had put on the counter for him. As he took a long drink, Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, taking in the way John fiddled with the golden band on his ring finger and how he dropped his gaze to the floor. Mycroft spoke again.

“Sherlock hates to go shopping; he says it’s a waste of time. Perhaps it’d be best for Mrs. Hudson to merely run her errands on her own; besides, the fresh air of the countryside is good for the both of you.”

                Taking another sip of tea, Mycroft arched an eyebrow at his half-brother when he glared at him long and hard enough to make his swollen head burst like an untimely blister. John shrugged sadly, as if his excitement was just a farce and he really didn’t care. He took up the toast on his plate and took a few small, calculated bites before setting the food down and refusing to pick it up once more. Sherlock felt his jaw working uselessly, his teeth gnashing together while he thought; he wanted to spend time with John, but he wanted to learn. He could learn while they were in the city, couldn’t he? John most likely wouldn’t mind, especially if no one saw them; he just wanted to get away from Mycroft’s prying eyes and Mrs. Hudson’s worried gaze.

“Actually,” John perked up at the sound of his Deity’s voice, glancing at him with those lost blue eyes; Sherlock glanced at Mrs. Hudson with the smoothest smile he could muster. “I wouldn’t mind going into the city. All this fresh air has been giving me a headache.” He glanced at Mycroft, who scowled. John was holding back that luster of his, and Sherlock was almost sure that the smile on his lips would crack his face in half. “We should go, since John hasn’t been; it would be interesting.”

                With that, Mrs. Hudson was cleaning up the kitchen and telling the boys to get ready with whatever they’d need: wallets, good shoes – John would have to borrow a pair of Sherlock’s shoes, two sizes too big for him – and an umbrella for the possibility of rain.

In John’s room, John fumbled with whatever Sherlock threw his way. A jacket, a pair of shoes Sherlock knew wouldn’t fit him, a different jacket if the previous one didn’t fit.

“Sherlock,” John said in a warning tone, causing the Deity to look up from the bag he had hauled from his own room to regard him carefully. “I can’t leave the Estate. You gave your order. Will you change it, or…?”

“Right. Of course.” Clearing his throat and standing up straight, Sherlock raised his eyebrows as John did the same, standing up straight and holding his hands behind his back; a soldier at parade rest. “I order you to stay by my side, in and outside the Holmes Summer Estate. Do you understand?”

“I understand. I’ll stay by your side, in or outside the Summer Estate, until you instruct me otherwise.”

With his new claim to freedom, John smiled and started to sift through the jackets that Sherlock had given him, thrusting his arm through one of the sleeves and watching as it drooped over the line of his knuckles. Mycroft interrupted the process, stepping into the safe haven that was John’s room and telling Sherlock that he was being ridiculous and getting Mrs. Hudson’s way.

“I’m not in the way,” Sherlock responded, telling John to put on the other jacket. “She’s offering to take us. I bet she wants to get away from you just as much as we do.”

                Taking John’s wrist – or the fabric of his other jacket because the sleeves were too still long on John and fell over his knuckles – and tugged him to the doorway, side-stepping Mycroft and towing the blonde to the front door. Mycroft fallowed him with harried steps, most likely trying to think of what he could say to stop Sherlock when he knew there was nothing he could say. Waving an arm to the house as he stepped out the front door for the first time since coming to the Summer Estate, Sherlock called behind to Mycroft:

“So long, try your best not to cry in my absence!”

                In the car, Sherlock had tucked John in the backseat behind Mrs. Hudson, allowing the Sentry to inspect each and every bit of the car with wide eyes and obvious observation. He didn’t want to sit in the front seat; John would’ve leaned forward to say something to him, his warm breath brushing over the shell of his ear and down his neck. No, Sherlock sat next to John in the backseat, quietly listening to John question every aspect of the car with a small smile.

“What is this made of?”

                He pat the seat underneath him with a wonder-filled tone, not even noticing that Mrs. Hudson was pulling out of the driveway. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Synthetic leather, John.” The Sentry turned his eyes up to him while his golden eyebrows knitted together in a confused manner. Sherlock sighed, playing with his safety belt. “It’s a fabric that was made to resemble leather, but it isn’t. It’s mainly made of plastic and nylon.”

                John’s lips parted in a dramatic ‘oh’, but Sherlock was positive that John still had no clue what he was talking about. After a few more questions on what things were, John turned to the window, admiring the way the world moved past them, exclaiming that it was amazing. Mrs. Hudson giggled just a bit while Sherlock rolled his eyes with a soft smile; John didn’t really know anything about the world outside the Strange House. It was good for him to learn.

                Sherlock didn’t like idle chat; it was a nuisance in his mind. He let Mrs. Hudson tell John about the different fields of tall grass that they passed, giving him stories of young children that used to play in those fields all of the time. Sherlock merely sat and fished his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his brother’s email for interesting things to look at while John smiled and nodded at Mrs. Hudson’s fond memories. It was different when John spoke; when John spoke, he immediately gained Sherlock’s attention, granting the Sentry all of his piercing intellect and narrowing it down on the sound of his words and the shape of his lips around words. It was quite a pastime, listening to John speak. Sherlock adored John’s way of speaking; he didn’t waste time with frivolous socially niceties when it came to a story, like others did. He merely told the story with his own words, not paraphrased jibber jabber that annoyed him to no end. So, when John spoke up, Sherlock lifted his gaze from his phone to watch his honey colored lips part around the beginning of his story.

“I was born in a field like that, I think.” Mrs. Hudson made a confused humming sound, glancing at John in the rearview mirror before returning her eyes to the road. “I don’t remember all that well, but… I think I was born in a field that was somewhat like that one. The sun was so bright that day; I remember that.” John laughed and turned to Sherlock with humor glittering in his eyes. “I suppose I’d have to remember that, considering I was born from the sun.”

“That sounds a bit lonely, John.” Mrs. Hudson mused, flicking the turning signal and slowing when she came to her turn. “Being all alone in a field like that.”

John shrugged, and slid along the seat a bit when the car turned, laughing at the force of inertia, not that he knew what that was. Mrs. Hudson glanced at him in the mirror again, but smiled this time. Sherlock smiled too, watching John shift his body back into his seat comfortably before he slipped his smaller feet out of Sherlock’s shoes and kicked them under the seat: banished until he absolutely had to wear them.

The rest of the car ride, much to Sherlock’s dismay, was filled with Mrs. Hudson’s gossip. The neighbors were up to something again, with that ‘thing’ in their lawn. A girl she went to school with was having an affair with someone, and she was dying to know who it was for the sake of more gossiping. More than once, Sherlock would cover his ears and curl in on himself in hopes that his brain cells would stay intact through the idiotic one-sided conversation. When he did this, John’s warm palm would slide over his shoulder, the sun warmed fingers would just brush over the hairs at the nape of his neck, and then the hand would retreat back to John’s lap. He would sit up and glare out the window until Mrs. Hudson insisted that the gardener, Lance, and had told her a completely legitimate story; Sherlock would then resume his sulking with his hands over his ears and his head between his knees.

John would reach across the seats to pat his back, his hand brushing smooth waves into the tight line of his shoulders before his hand would disappear and the muffled conversation was brought to light again. John was trying to soothe him, but Sherlock could only think of his dream; those warm hands had been other places, sliding over other things; Sherlock smiled and didn’t take his hands from his ears, hearing John say his name in that wanton tone over and over. And then John’s hand was back, smoothing over his shoulder blades and scraping against his wool coat before gripping his shoulder and tugging lightly. Sitting up slightly, Sherlock removed his hands from his ears to look up at John, seeing tall buildings slip past the window as he did so.

“Sherlock, it’s the city.” He said with such awe inspired amazement Sherlock smiled. They must have been driving for over an hour, but his excitement hadn’t faded. His electrifying blue eyes were fixed on one building, and when it was out of sight, he found another to admire. “Everything is so… big. How do you see all of this in one day?”

“You don’t go into every building, John. We won’t even have to go into several of them. We might just go to one store and find you some decent pajamas,”

“And at least two new shirts and a few new pairs of trousers,” Mrs. Hudson added.

“And my own shoes, if that’s alright.”

John mumbled, looking down at Sherlock’s shoes that were tucked beneath Mrs. Hudson’s chair. Sherlock sighed and waved away the additions with a flick of his wrist.

“Yes, fine; shirts and trousers and whatnot.”

“Shoes.”

“Yes, John. Shoes. All of these things can easily be found in one store. We don’t have to see the whole city when we can just go into one building.” When John nodded slowly with that fake smile of his, Sherlock folded and watched Mrs. Hudson smile at the steering wheel. “Or, we might have to look around for something you want. All the unknown variables, and such.”

                The landlady chose to leave the car in a parking structure – being paid by the Holmes family, she was given plenty of money to pay for the frivolous expense of paying for a pleasant place to park – and she gave Sherlock the very important job of remembering where the car was parked. John smiled at Sherlock when he began to go off about how it was a stupid thing to ask him to memorize it when he would easily remember things that he notices, and reached out a hand to tap his shoulder lightly.

“I think she gets it, Sherlock. She’s not even listening anymore.”

“Well, it was for the benefit of both of you.”

                Sherlock grumbled as Mrs. Hudson walked them to the lift and began to go on about something Sherlock’s mother had told her. IT was something about a very impressive market filled with all sorts of people and strange things.

“I’ve just been dying to go there, but I never could find it.” She fluttered her hands about her hair as if there was someone very important in the lift that she had to impress. The bell signaling the opening of the lift doors rang, and the company shuffled inside as Mrs. Hudson went on. “Your mother told me that it was a market unlike any other right inside this strip of stores; but I never found it.”

She repeated her defeat and deflated a bit at the failure. It interested Sherlock, and the idea of not being able to find it intrigued him even more; perhaps it was a place that only Sentries, Gods, and their descendants could find. He turned to John to ask him if he could somehow find this strange place, but Mrs. Hudson interrupted him when the lift dinged their arrival and she shooed them out of the small enclosure.

“Alright, boys! Here we go, into the great unknown. John, you’ll want to stay close, dear.” John nodded and stepped closer to Sherlock as they entered the shopping complex, letting their arms brush against one another as they walked. Mrs. Hudson let them to a store called _Kirkland Outfitters_ , spotting a mannequin in ‘darling’ clothes and taking John’s hand to lead him inside while Sherlock stayed back by the entrance. “Now, John, you just look around and tell me what you like and we’ll see what sizes they have.”

                Watching Mrs. Hudson walk toward a rack of shirts, John scurried back to Sherlock with a horrified expression. Pushing the fabric that covered his knuckles back only to have it fall back against his hands – a tide that simply couldn’t be kept out at sea – John gave a flustered apology.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock blinked and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to be _right_ by my side, John.”

“That’s what your order implied.”

                John mumbled up to him, pushing the sleeves back again. Sherlock sighed heavily and stepped into the store, coming to a stop next to Mrs. Hudson and giving her a thin smile when she asked him his he wanted anything.

“No, I don’t want anything. At least, nothing from this store. John,” The Sentry next to him smiled up at him with a trusting expression and Sherlock felt the tips of his ears burn as he waved him toward a shelf of what seemed to be blue jeans. “You can go look over there if you want.”

                Biting his lower lip and twining his fingers together, John’s smile was impossible to miss as he turned back to Sherlock with a light flush. Mrs. Hudson hid a snicker behind a delicate hand while Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. John mumbled his question quickly, only to be cut off by Sherlock’s response.

“Will you… I mean, I don’t have to look at those things if you don’t,”

“I’m coming.”

                Sherlock grunted, shuffling forward with John trailing close behind. When Sherlock presented John to the rack of trousers, the Sentry’s eyes were sparkling with interest. Perhaps he really did want to wear something else besides the clothing that his mother dreamed up for him, and he just didn’t know what he wanted. Now he had an entire shopping mall to play with. Sherlock rocked back on his heels and watched John inspect the different kinds of washes with distant interest.

“Good morning,” A sale associate greeted politely; Sherlock gave him a once over, understanding that he was the owner of the store and took his business seriously, opting to work there instead of leaving all of the work for his subordinates. Sherlock could respect that. “I’m Arthur Kirkland. Anything I can help you find, today?”

                Arthur wore a sharp enough looking outfit; with a dark green jumper and grey slacks, he was a stand up young man with ruffled blonde hair that would have reminded Sherlock of John if it weren’t quite so messy. John looked to Sherlock with wide eyes instead of answering the clerk, choosing instead to turn his eyes down to the ground. Sherlock put on the politest smile he could and spoke for the Sentry, who obviously thought he was too low on the food-chain to speak to strangers without Sherlock’s consent.

“My friend is looking for some new clothes, but he’s never really gone shopping before.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question the statement. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t really know what you’re looking for.”

                John glanced up at the older man and nodded, albeit shyly, with his sunshine smile. Arthur’s lips kicked up to the side in response, bringing his hands out of his pockets to fold his arms over his chest as he thought. He resembled a bird in some ways, Sherlock imagined; his blonde hair sticking out in strange ways that couldn’t have been natural, like a new born baby chick; eyes like slivers of cut jade or a leaf freshly moistened with morning dew. Though these aspects of the man were sure to be aesthetically pleasing, Sherlock could only imagine one person’s blonde hair and their fetching eyes to be captivating: John.

“Well, I’m not much of an expert on trending fashion, as you can see.” John glance at his jumper with a glint of interest before the man continued. “I wouldn’t know what to put on you.” With a fascinated tilt of his head to the side, Sherlock watched as John’s cheeks flared a brilliant pink while Arthur hummed and tapped his chin with his index finger. “Wait here. I’m going to get my wife, and we’ll see she can do with you.”

“Oh, fantastic.” Sherlock grumbled as the man walked away, gesturing after him with a flourish of his arm and a roll of his eyes. “Hear that, John? He’s getting his wife. Perfect. Just what we need. Another person to tell us the obvious; the fact that you need a pair of trousers and a new shirt.”

                John shrugged, eyeing the shelf of blue jeans next to him with a disconcerted glance before flashing Sherlock a bewilderingly pleasant smile. Sherlock thought about smiling in response, but decided against it, opting to put his hands back into the pockets of his long black coat – the one Mycroft had gotten him last Christmas – and huff disagreeably.

“He’s just trying to help, Sherlock.”

“Whatever.” Sherlock muttered, looking to the back of the store where Arthur was speaking to a young woman, presumably his wife, before giving his attention back to John. “John, Mrs. Hudson said something about a market my mother told her about… would you happen to know what kind of market it is? Or even better, do you know how we can find it?”

John bit his lower lip and scowled at the floor while he thought. Looking back to Sherlock after only a moment, the Sentry gave a pensive nod.

“I think I know how to find it. Some of the other Sentries used to tell me stories about some kind of market when I was allowed to play in the forest. They told me,”

“John.”

                Sherlock’s tone was a warning one, and just as he spoke, Arthur’s wife came strolling out from behind the counter with her tight blue jeans and form fitting red shirt. Blonde hair cut into a flattering bob adorned her head, bouncing a bit with every bright-eyed step she took. Those bright blue eyes immediately fixed themselves on John, and a smooth smile with straight teeth made an appearance. Sherlock hummed; she wasn’t with Arthur for his obvious connections with the store, but it seemed unlikely for the two of them to meet just by lucky happenstance. Thinking on this, Sherlock leaned back and watched her introduce herself.

“Hi boys, my name is Amelia. Arthur said you might need a little bit of my help.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow: an American. Arthur and she could have met while she was in England for schooling. Yes, a likely excuse, Sherlock supposed. She looked John up and down with a sour expression. “Oh. Is that what you wear… every day?”

                John looked at himself and made a flustered noise, some sort of sound between a grunt and a cough that made Sherlock shift where he stood and take a deep breath. And then John smoothed the front of the jacket he wore quickly. He could’ve been bothered by the fact that she could be insulting Sherlock’s jacket, and he merely wanted to protect his Deity, but Sherlock had a feeling it he was more worried about Sherlock being embarrassed to be with him. Though, that was impossible. He would never be embarrassed to be with John, whether or not he wore Sherlock’s old two-sizes-too-big shoes.

“I… I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with what I have.”

“Honey,” Amelia leaned forward and patted John’s arm as if he was a small child that needed to be taught a very obvious lesson. “your shoes are at least a size and a half too big, and you are drowning in that coat.” While John’s cheeks and ears flared a flattering crimson – Sherlock noted that the air around him was growing a bit warm – Amelia smiled and gave him another tap on the arm with her delicate hand. “Don’t look like that, it’s going to be fine! You just need a few pointers when it comes to shopping for clothes.”

                Swallowing a bout of sarcastic responses, Sherlock followed John and Amelia around the store, watching as she squinted at John before handing him a few pairs of trousers and moving on to the next shelf. When the bubbly American told John to try on the clothes, Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek when John reached for the elastic band of his trousers, stopping the Sentry with a solid hand and a flustered tongue, reassuring him that he was supposed to go into a dressing room. It was ridiculous, Sherlock thought, the way John took things so literally. Remaining glued to his side because of his order and nearly stripping when Amelia told him to try on the samples of clothing. John stepped out from behind the curtain and stared at Sherlock blankly, asking him if the clothing was alright.

“How does it feel?”

                Sherlock sighed with a bored expression, watching as Mrs. Hudson cooed and told him he looked adorable. Her hands clapped together as if John had learned an amazing trick by putting on a pair of light blue jeans and a black and white striped shirt; Sherlock shrugged. He was still the same captivating person, no matter what he wore. He didn’t care what John was dressed in, much less, he didn’t care if Mrs. Hudson thought he was adorable. The brown running shoes – fitting John’s feet perfectly – squeaked against the hardwood floor as John twisted his ankle in thought. He blinked and looked down at the shirt, brushing the tips of his fingers against his chest and frowned.

“It doesn’t feel the same,” He hummed, looking back to Sherlock with a light smile. “But I think that’s alright. The old shirt was meant to be a little stifling.”

Amelia sniffed haughtily, as if John’s comment was an insult to her taste in fashion. Pushing the heel of her hand through her hair, the American gave John a quick onceover before nodding stiffly in approval.

“It looks fine on you. Do you want to try anything else?”

John blinked spastically. “No. No, thank you. I don’t need anything else.” Amelia nodded.

                Pulling the curtain shut and shielding himself from the sickly pallor of the store’s lights, John disappeared back into the dressing room as Amelia took his clothes when he pushed them out at her, and slipped behind the register and gave Mrs. Hudson her grand total. While the landlady plucked a plastic card out of her wallet, one that Mycroft no doubt gave her for groceries and other household necessities, Sherlock leaned back against the side of the dressing room with a passive expression.

“John. Do you know how to find that market?”

“What?” John’s voice sounded hollow from inside the small rectangular space, but Sherlock could still hear the underlying tone of John’s uncertainty. “Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot for a moment.”

 Sherlock heard the symphony of rustling fabrics: John’s arms through his white shirt, his fingers dragging along the cloth as he pulls it down over himself; John’s legs pushing down into his trousers, pulling the article of clothing up and around his waist with a snap of elastic; John’s sigh as he forces his normally bare feet back into Sherlock’s old shoes. Sherlock wondered if he’d be able to hear all of these things every day. Hearing his Sentry, his friend, his roommate, getting ready for a day; it seemed almost domestic.

                As John stepped out of the dressing room with Sherlock’s jacket in hand, Mrs. Hudson approached them with a plastic bag filled with John’s new clothes.

“I didn’t think we’d be done this early,” She confessed with an airy laugh. “Where should we go next, boys?”

“John is going to show me my mother’s market.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, causing John to sputter and look back and forth between his Deity and the landlady. “I’d like the two of us to go alone, Mrs. Hudson. Would you be willing to wait for us?”

                With Mrs. Hudson’s insistence that they keep her updated on their whereabouts every hour, the group stepped out of the shop, and swapped out John’s shoes with ones that better suited him.

“We’ll stay in touch, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock assured her as John pulled the laces of his new shoes taut before quickly tying them and standing straight. “We won’t be too long, anyway.”

Giving the dark haired teen a hard look that showed she didn’t believe that he wouldn’t be long, the older woman excused herself to go to the bookstore, keen on getting a copy of the newest book in the ‘ _Fonder than Newlyweds’_ series. Sherlock, however, was not listening as she twittered about one detail as she slowly wandered away; he was regarding the way John looked to and fro around the lines of stores with a crumpled expression.

“John?” Sherlock questioned. John hummed in response, his eyebrows drawing down into a frown while he thought. “John, do you know where to look?”

                With a nod of his head, John took Sherlock’s wrist and tugged him forward as he began to walk, seemingly without direction through the thin crowds. Sherlock allowed himself to be lead for a moment before slipping his own hand into John’s, feeling his warm palm against his fingers and thinning his lips. It was intimate, Sherlock thought, holding hands like this as they passed a group of young girls. A few of them saw their connected hands and giggled, leaning toward each other and glancing at them as John kept up his surefire pace toward the far edge of the mall.

                Using his longer legs to his advantage, Sherlock let his thoughts move along quickly with his and John’s feet; he liked this feeling. The feeling of John leading him toward something he dearly wanted; something that would lead him closer to his mother, to understand her even after she was gone from a world that missed her dearly. He liked the feeling of John’s hand in his, leading him forward, even if they were side by side; Sherlock winced and ducked his chin at the thought. It wasn’t normal. He hadn’t felt like this before, not like a teenager, not like a boy, not like… a _person._

“Here,” John said, tugging Sherlock into a small nook between two shops, pointing at the walls that were painted a sticky, wet-tar black. “Here it is.”

                Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow, watching the walls with an almost bored expression as John dropped his hand. Even after John’s skin was gone, the warmth lingered in Sherlock’s fingers, and he stepped forward to closely inspect the acclaimed market. Specs of chipped paint, covered by several more layers of black coloring, sat before Sherlock.

“Are you sure?”

                John smiled at Sherlock before giving the walls an appraising glance. He looked like he was reminiscing about something that was said long ago, but never made a move to restate the words. He looked like he was seeing something that he had seen once before, but never spoke any words to make a claim that it was true. He looked like he knew something secret, something that Sherlock was desperate to realize, but he didn’t want to reveal the truth just yet.

John lifted his hand and placed it on the wall next to Sherlock, his chest brushing against Sherlock’s shoulder. The Deity watched his hand rather than his expression, knowing that he would only get caught in those blue eyes and suffocate beneath the weight of them. John would see the glint of interest in his eyes, and hollow scent of seduction on his lips; it wasn’t right. Not when John didn’t want him in return. Sherlock watched John’s warm hand as it gave its subtle glow, casting a glance to the opening of the nook only to see that it was gone. Black walls swallowed up the space around them, leaving only John’s light to keep them from disintegrating into the nothingness.

“It’s like when you see my dreams, Sherlock.” John hummed into the side of Sherlock’s neck, causing the taller teen to clench his trembling hands into fists to avoid the pleasurable shiver that threatened to crawl its way up his spine. “You expand your consciousness until there isn’t any room for it to grow, feeling the world move around you in ways you can’t quite explain. I grew up feeling this, I grew knowing how to feel the magic around me, and how to know the difference between what is a lie, and what is reality.”

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of thick saliva, watching in fascination as the light never seemed to eat away at himself or John, as if not only John was filled with light, but he was as well. Was this the kind of magic that John spoke of? The light of his mother’s soul connected with his, or the light of her magic. Which one kept him from disappearing? Was it something of his own, or was it something coded deep within the structure of his DNA?

“To some who don’t know how to see or feel such things, this looks like a wall.” John stated, pushing the hand he had against the wall slightly, and breaking away a thin, rectangle shaped outline in the blackness that shone a hot platinum. “But not to us.” John smiled, pushing his hand forward and in turn stepped closer to Sherlock, their hands brushing once more as the blackness melted beneath the heat of the light, revealing a doorway. “To us, this wall is an open door.”


	11. Give Me Away

                White noise, white noise; Mummy had taught Sherlock how to ignore it. How to tune it out and pretend that it wasn’t there. She had told Sherlock that she was also attuned to hearing and seeing things that people normally didn’t notice, telling him with a smile that if the focused on something else, the noise would be less abrasive. White noise: shouting, rustling, running; a woman dropped her purse while a younger man with strange tattoos covering face and bare arms picks it up with a smile and hands it back to her. Young children with similar markings are following a man as he steps lightly through the flowing crowds in the area, their high-pitched voices lost beneath the din of one thousand voices around them.

                Sherlock’s breath caught, and his eyes traveled up to catch a glimpse of the ceiling, at least twenty meters above them and resembling the cover  of a circus tent. Multicolored fabric dripped from the ceiling and down to corners of the space, spanning a rough kilometer or two in Sherlock’s estimation; in short, the space was enormous. With multicolor clothing swarming about and over the top calls to customers being howled, Sherlock could’ve imagined it being some sort of cult if it weren’t for the dozens of other people that Sherlock noticed had tattoos covering their skin in ornate patterns. Sherlock blinked; Sentries, or Gods? He didn’t know the difference in appearance.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, stepping through the doorway and immediately recoiling from the sight of an entirely different reality. “John, what is this?”

“The market, I assume.”

                The Sentry’s voice almost held a smile, holding a solid hand to the small of his Deity’s back and keeping him from stumbling back into the normal strip of shops and falling out of the place he had been desperate to find. Sherlock snorted condescendingly; a sound that would have been derisive if it weren’t for the uneasy quiver of his hands. There were so many sounds and lights and colors; fire tamers in the far left, and a girl that was spinning glass with the tips of her fingers to his right; people hawking for trinkets and good-luck charms, and a man that was offering trades for something Sherlock couldn’t quite hear; on top of all of that, Sherlock was merely confused about the space itself. There was so much of it, so much that it couldn’t possibly fit inside the mall without being inconspicuous. So, how was it there and not being noticed? There weren’t oversized tarps covering the outside of the shopping center, so where were they? Turning around to speak to John, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and forced himself to focus on John’s nervous stare.

“John, are we even in England?”

The Sentry turned his eyes to the floor, not worthy of Sherlock’s stare, before he spoke quietly. It was an action that didn’t put Sherlock any further at ease; he was distracted by the array of actions, the mysteries of the market, the strangeness of it all; Sherlock almost walked away without an answer with full intent on exploring every part of it in detail with John no doubt following on his heels.

“Well, we _are_ ,” John shrugged, holding his hands out in a helpless gesture. “but we’re _not_.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John, though his eyes still regarded the ground, hurried to continue as if he could feel the sarcastic look without having to lift his eyes. “It’s a sort of place between places; not here and not there.”

“So, we’re nowhere.” Sherlock deadpanned, watching John’s fragile composure threaten to shatter beneath the weight of his words. Sherlock sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning back to the market with an openly curious expression; his lips quirked up at the side in preparation for a smile, and he heard John let out a breath. “You’ll explain what you know, won’t you, John?”

“What? I mean, yes. Yes, I’ll tell you what I know, if it’ll help.”

                Nodding to himself, Sherlock delved into the market, heading past the girl who was spinning glass – the same strange tattoos and markings covering her caramel colored skin – and wandering with idle purpose toward some of the tables. John would point out a necklace every so often, saying that it would increase a certain kind of skill for certain kinds of Sentries. Sherlock asked why this was, and John laughed lightly. “Just because, Sherlock.” Sherlock would frown and glare at the jewels with meagre frustration. “Just because magic is everywhere, and we draw it from all kinds of things.”

“See anything you like?”

                A young girl with chocolate colored skin said from across the counter, snagging Sherlock’s attention from the trinket covered tabletop and causing him to look up at her smile. Her yellow irises were captivating, and would surely be alluring to anyone else, but in Sherlock’s mind, her golden couldn’t compare with John’s electrifying blue. The girl pulled her jet black hair over her shoulder, revealing an intricately braided weave that rolled smoothly over her collarbone and settled neatly in the crook of her arm.

“Or maybe, something you need?”

                She asked innocently, fiddling with the split ends of her hair as Sherlock returned his gaze to the necklaces and talismans on the table. Perhaps he should get something for John, who was watching him quietly as he stood just a breath away from him, holding his hands behind his back and not reaching out to experimentally touch the things like Sherlock did. If he drew power from all sorts of things, maybe there was something that would make it impossible for John to hide who he was, ring or no ring. Just as he was going to ask for something like that, Sherlock felt a glimmer of curiousity, and changed his request.

“Dreams.” He said, hoping that the talisman would reveal to him a dream that wouldn’t embarrass him in the middle of the night. “Something that gives good dreams.”

As if this was a common demand, the yellow-eyed girl nodded thoughtfully and retreated under the table while John leaned into Sherlock’s shoulder and worried.

“Good dreams? Have you not be sleeping well?”

                Rolling his eyes, Sherlock imagined John as a caring friend and colleague, and even more, a worried caretaker that would not let even the smallest ailment slip. John may as well have been a doctor that wanted to treat his every illness and soothe his every pain; Sherlock was almost positive that he’d trust him to do so.

“I’m fine. Just a little trouble with the dreams I’ve been having lately.”

“Is there anything I can,”

“No, I’m quite sure there isn’t anything you can do, John.”

                Just as Sherlock stated this, the girl emerged from her hiding place beneath the table and held out a simple circle of silver on a thin chain. “This,” She said with a voice like silk, “will help with your dreams. It is a charm that will bring out the softest and more easy-going dreams; blessed by the Goddess of Dreams herself.”

Giving the medallion a skeptical glance, Sherlock took the chain and held up the charm to that he could look at it clearly. It was a simple disc of silver with three indentations along the circumference, and no other marking; the circle of silver was hardly larger than his thumbnail, but Sherlock looked at the girl and asked for a price. When he had given her a sufficient amount of bank notes – courtesy of his secret reserve, taken from Mycroft’s secret reserve – he stowed the necklace away in his pocket and turned back to the crowds with John in his wake, intent on observing the people around them.

                Sherlock noted that the people with markings were almost always traveling in groups, and even when they weren’t, they were accompanied by one person without them. Letting a small boy with markings slide past him to catch up to a teenage girl without markings, Sherlock let himself take down a list of questions that he needed to ask in order to full understand the things that weren’t painfully obvious.

                John was quiet when they passed by other people without the markings. He never made eye contact with the owners of booths or tables, and apologizing profusely when he bumped shoulders with strangers; it made Sherlock aware of the fact that John wasn’t telling him something important. Eyeing a long table that held mountains of books that each held varying amounts of pages as well as dust, Sherlock turned around to face John, intent on asking him just why he had been so quiet, only to discover the blonde being prodded by a stranger.

Feeling a headstrong urge to pull John away from the man – he was obviously one of the shop keepers, though Sherlock hadn’t seen him yet. With a ridiculous top hat and an oversized brown jumper, the young man was as outlandish and out of place as the market they were currently walking through. He was a fly amid a nest of bees, similar to the people around them, but not quite enough to fool Sherlock into trusting him. He didn’t trust anyone easily, and it had taken quite a bit of thought to trust John. The man – the fly amid the bees – Sherlock knew that he was someone he should keep a close eye on. Glaring at the stranger as he leaned towards John’s face and squinted at him, Sherlock noted that John merely watched the ground and bowed his head.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock snapped, taking a hardly calm step toward the odd exchange and gripping John’s wrist. Giving the Sentry a good tug, he pulled John forward and away from the man’s eyes and into his burning chest; burning with anger, or something more? Sherlock couldn’t quite tell. The man raised his hands in surrender, giving Sherlock a sideways grin that didn’t quite reach his cunning brown eyes.

“Easy now, mate. Just checking out the merchandise.”

Sherlock’s grip on John’s warm wrist grew tighter while the blonde looked up to him broken up confusion.

“He is not merchandise. Are you really that stupid to assume that he’s for sale?” Sherlock’s silver eyes narrowed as John gave him a small smile that he could see out of his peripheral vision. “Do the entire market a favor and go somewhere where your intelligence won’t make the rest of the world weep.”

The man laughed, tipping his hat to Sherlock as if he’d given the man a genuine compliment and revealing a head of horribly disarrayed red hair.

“Not for sale, but maybe for trade.” Sherlock hesitated when he thought of hitting the man as he leaned toward the pair and smiled wryly once more. “I can tell he’s a Sentry from that behavior of his. I mean, that’s a fine looking Sentry you’ve got, but I can tell you’re a man that likes a little more excitement.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid from John’s startled blue irises to the stranger’s amused muddy brown gaze.

“Excitement?”

“Joseph is the name,” The young man stuck out his hand, and Sherlock refused to take it while John’s wrist slid out of his grip and the blonde slipped around his side to stand behind him. “Trading and supplying Sentries is my game.”

“Trading and supplying.”

                Sherlock repeated blandly with a bored expression and the quirk of an eyebrow. He felt John tug on his sleeve, but he was too interested in the mystery of trading Sentries to mind it. Joseph nodded smoothly, indicating to a corner of the market where several people with markings were gathered before walking in the direction of the corner. With a defined purpose of solving the mystery of trading and supplying Sentries, Sherlock followed behind the man easily. John tapped his shoulder once more, and Sherlock finally gave the shorter teen a sideways glance.

“Sherlock,” He whispered as well as he could over the noise of the market, leaning close to his shoulder and breathing his name against his neck as they walked. Sherlock licked his lips. “I’m not sure if you want to trust him. He’s one of the sons of Mendaci, the God of Trades; he might try to fool you into a deal.”

Sherlock registered the Gods’ name into memory before pursing his lips and refocusing his gaze on Joseph’s back. “What makes you think I trust him?”

                With a muttered, shallow response from John, Sherlock watched as they took a turn around the edge of a small tent that held a wall of painted masks and odd hats, catching the strong scent of perfume as they walked toward the large group of marked people. The scent was as strong as an entire store filled with various kinds of perfume or simply the wreak of rotten eggs; it may as well have been the latter. Even though Sherlock could easily identify the most predominant smells as lavender and rose, his eyes watered at the strength, and he stumbled back and pushed himself back into John’s waiting arms while he covered his noise with the back of his hand.

“Strong, ain’t it?” Joseph grinned at Sherlock’s response as if it was a normal occurrence in the corner; and due to the slight wrinkle in his nose, Sherlock supposed it was. “What you smell is the girls and their Unclaimed Scent. I’m guessing you’ve never been to a trading center for Sentries, huh?”

Struggling to straighten himself out and remove his hand from his face, Sherlock allowed John to grip his upper arms and hold on, his warmth leaking through his coat sleeve and holding him to the ground steadily. John’s hands kept his him from turning and sprinting away from the corner, even though he couldn’t tell why he wanted to do so. The smell was one thing, but there was an underlying feeling that something was very wrong; a magnetic pulse and a faint static electricity that sent him just a bit off balance.

As he stood with his back pressed to John’s chest, Sherlock’s eyebrows were drawn down into a frown; the smell was coming from the girls? Or was the entire group of people that sent strange impulses to turn away down his spine? When Joseph began to walk forward, into the mass of the marked people, Sherlock felt John’s hands slip away until only one hand remained holding onto the cuff of his sleeve.

“Right this way. You look like someone who likes to run around quite a bit, and that Sentry you have right now,” Joseph gave John a skeptical glance as he led the two of them forward. “It seems like he’s more of the stationary type.” Sherlock heard John grumble something about Joseph being a ‘stationary type’ under his breath, and let his lips turn up into a smile as the top hat wearing fool led him to a group of three girls. “I think you’ll like these girls. All of them are Ventus Sentries, or Wind Sentries; light on their feet and always ready for a face pace environment.” Joseph winked. “Very fast.”

Sherlock gave the three girls a quick glance. Their markings were a pale blue, almost light enough to be translucent against their skin as they sat quietly in front of him. Sherlock blinked; they were Sentries, and all of them had the markings. Markings were a sign that someone was a Sentry, and the ring that John wore was hiding who he really was. The ring was hiding his markings. John with those markings; Sherlock imagined that it would be beautiful. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pretended to be interested in the girls to fight off the urge to rip the ring off of John’s hand to see the markings underneath the disguise.

One had platinum blonde hair while the other two had blonde hair that almost matched John’s own blonde head of hair, all three had pale, porcelain skin. Long and flowing like the wind that they were born from, Sherlock saw that if they stood up from the crates they sat atop of, the locks would easily reach their knees. All three of the girls smiled invitingly, leaning into one another and whispering something in the others’ ear and giggling to themselves before turning back to Sherlock with flushed cheeks. Sherlock wasn’t interested. Looking to Joseph – Sherlock noted that he was watching him closely to monitor his reaction – the Deity raised an eyebrow and asked the question that was beginning to fester in the back of his mind.

“And you want me to give my Sentry to you in exchange for one of these girls? It sounds like slavery, to me.”

There was a short pause, then Joseph began to laugh loudly, causing the three girls to look away in shy embarrassment. Close behind him, John shuffled his foot awkwardly and looked around the groups of Sentries, licking his lips and distracting Sherlock for only a moment before Joseph spoke again.

“You really _are_ new to this. This isn’t slavery, it’s a… business deal.” Sherlock wasn’t convinced, raising an eyebrow and putting his hands into his pockets. Joseph hurried to explain himself. “What I mean is, Sentries come here to be Claimed.” The Trader motioned vaguely to the small clusters of Sentries in the corner. “After a while, I hear that some Sentries get bored of sticking to one place for too long, so they come to markets like this to be picked out and taken somewhere new where they can be used.”

“Used?”

Sherlock repeated with a sarcastic tone, causing Joseph to sputter and reword his earlier statement in vain. His brown eyes darted about the room whist no one made a move to help him recover himself.

“It’s like getting a job or picking up a hobby, mate. Think of it like that. Trading and supplying; it’s all part of the deal. Trade one contract for a new one, or pay a small fee for a nice new contract.” When Sherlock wasn’t swayed by the new information, Joseph became visibly flustered, taking up his hat to scrub his fingers through his ratty red hair and replacing it atop his head before he gave a shaky grin and spoke again. “Let me show you a few more.”

                With John in tow, Sherlock allowed himself to be led away from the Wind Sentries, past a group of Sentries that were discussing the values of vegetables versus fruits, and to a group of limber looking young Sentries. The group was large in size, with a variations of gender and skin color, but the markings were all the same; a deep black that could have easily been mistaken for tattoos.

“These are the Terra Sentries, or the Earth Sentries. All of ‘em are strong and able to hold their own in a fight or keep you out of trouble.” Joseph said loudly, causing most of the Earth Sentries in front of them to quiet down and give Sherlock a questioning look. “They’re all good to have and good to keep. Very loyal, I assure you.”

“My Sentry is already very loyal.” John’s sunlight filled smile glowed happily next to Sherlock as he continued to speak proudly. “He’s vowed to never leave my side.”

Joseph scoffed. “ _Any_ Sentry can vow that. It’s a basic principles thing; Deities and Gods give the orders, and the peasants make ‘em happy. It’s their job.”

                When Sherlock didn’t turn to examine the new Sentries in front of him, Joseph rolled his eyes and turned in his heel to lead him forward to the next group. Sherlock could see the glow of John’s pleasant happiness cutting through the agitated heat that came from Joseph’s careless words, and smiled at the thought of John letting his true nature come through just a bit. He wanted to make him take off the ring. He wanted to see if John’s markings were the fiery color of the sun, or if they simply shone a hot white or even an even hotter blue.

“Fine,” Joseph said flatly, jerking Sherlock back to attention while he stopped in front of a new group of Sentries with John still glowing at his side. “Maybe you _like_ the stationary type; I thought you were more of an adventurous type,”

“I can be.”

“Yeah, but you don’t like the ones that were made for more adventure and moving around.”

Sherlock gave Joseph a grim smile. “Who are you to define what a person is made for?”

“Wha’?” Sherlock winced at the lack of annunciation, but continued to smile sickly at the bland-faced Trader. “Come off it, mate. They’re not people. They’re Sentries.”

                Gnashing his teeth together and slipping his hand into John’s to restrain himself when Joseph turned away, Sherlock wished he could understand how to make his dreams a tangible reality; that way, he couldn’t be blamed when a copy of Joseph shot him in the face with a rifle. Sherlock could use his dreams to get away with murder; would it be alright to do that? Feeling John grip his hand tightly, Sherlock turned to see a thin lipped smile pasted over his normally sweetly smiling mouth. Keeping their hands firmly together even after Joseph turned to face them again – he had been telling some of the younger Sentries to quiet down – Sherlock raised his eyebrows when Joseph gave them a perplexed look.

“Uh, this,” Joseph opened his mouth to say something, then rethought it and went in another direction, smiling and introducing the group in front of them. “These are theFlosculi Sentries. Flower Sentries. I’ll bet you like them.” Sherlock watched as Joseph signaled for a male Sentry to come closer, putting a hand on the light brown haired man’s shoulder with a smile. His marking were a deep pink, just like all of the other Sentries in his group, and it made Sherlock want to know what color John’s markings were. “What do you think? Nice to look at, right?” Another wink from the Trader, and John sighed through his nose at the sight. Sherlock couldn’t agree more. “Flosculi are good for company. Very good companions, I hear; now, what kind of Sentry do you have? I can’t see his markings.”

Raising his chin proudly, Sherlock announced John’s title clearly. “He’s a Sol Sentry.”

                Several of the Flosculi Sentries leaned toward each other to whisper in the others’ ear at the title, each of them wearing similar excited and impressed faces. Joseph’s hand slipped from the brunette’s shoulder, and he smiled an impossibly happy smile, as if Sherlock had somehow managed to give John away in the process of revealing his identity. He held onto John’s hand tighter, feeling his fingers slick with sweat after being in contact with John’s warm palms for so long, but it didn’t stop him from clinging to John in hopes that the Trader hadn’t somehow tricked him like John clued that he might.

“A Sol Sentry, here in England.” Joseph sounded immensely ecstatic about the idea, and he took a step closer to the pair. Sherlock was in his right mind to run, already having the fundamental feeling that being around of the strange Sentries was something wrong; almost _filthy_ in nature. “That’s quite rare. I’ll tell you what: if you let me have that contract of yours, I’ll let you have your pick of three other Sentries. Any kind you want. Any of them.”

                There was a fluctuation in the pressure of Sherlock and John’s interlocked hands, but Sherlock was quite to tighten his grip while John momentarily panicked. John was not just his mother’s Sentry; John was his Sentry. He was Sherlock’s only friend. The only person Sherlock wanted near him, and the only person Sherlock had wanted in his bed; John was important, and no amount of bargaining would incline Sherlock to give him away like a common item.

“You cannot buy John from me, not with a thousand Sentries. He is not a thing, and neither are they; they are not John, and they will never be equal to his worth.” Sherlock’s voice came out as a threatening hiss as he went on coldly. “And you cannot treat him the way you do with your other things. He may just be a Sentry to you, but he is a person to me. He is my friend.”

Joseph raised his eyebrows and leaned back from Sherlock’s angry stare.

“You sure he isn’t more than that?”

Stepping forward and crowding Joseph’s personal space, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and growled in a voice that Mycroft had taught him after many years of scolding.

“Piss off.”

                Pulling John along behind him none too gently, Sherlock stormed his way back to the wall where they had entered and gave John a flippant wave of his hand as an indication to open the wall and lead them home. John pushed open the wall once more, and with two steps, they were back in the blackness that was the sealed off entryway to the market; hiding itself from the prying eyes of normal humans, no doubt. When the darkness melted away, Sherlock pulled John out of the opening and called Mrs. Hudson. It was time to go home.

“Did you boys have fun?”

                Mrs. Hudson looked in the rearview mirror as she asked, quickly returning her eyes to the parking structure as a large van attempted to pull out in front of her. Sherlock grunted noncommittally, glaring out the window as he fiddled with the charm in his coat pocket. John said something that was probably sweet about how Mrs. Hudson had bought him new clothes, but Sherlock didn’t catch it as he glared. He was confused. Being confused was not a thing Sherlock liked to be. Being confused was for idiots like Joseph and Phillip Anderson, not Sherlock Holmes.

                When Joseph asked him if he wasn’t sure John was something more than a friend, Sherlock had momentarily reconsidered the idea; could John be more than a friend? Did John want to be more than just his friend? He could guess from the normal behaviors he observed at Eton, boys did not want to share a bed together when they were friends. They spoke about girls and games, not dreams and memories. Sherlock could almost imagine the idea of John being more than a friend, but the thoughts and dreams of John being more blended together into a hot mess that made his stomach twist and the tips of his ears burn red with excitement.

                They were on the road back to the Summer Estate that was lined with more green fields of tall grass when John spoke again. Sherlock could see the reflection of his pensive expression in the glass of the window, but he made no move to acknowledge it as the blonde spoke.

“I’m glad you didn’t trade me away, Sherlock.” His voice was quiet in the car, and Mrs. Hudson made no move to interrupt, lest she miss the juicy details of John being traded away. “I’d miss you.”

                Sherlock huffed and turned over the small medallion in his pocket for the umpteenth time, considering lying and saying that he had weighed the pros and cons of giving John to the Trader. But, John was his friend. He wanted John to be more than his friend. And John had always valued the truth. So, turning to John and catching his thoughtful aqua eyes, Sherlock gave John just what he wanted to hear: the truth.

“I wouldn’t let you miss me.” Mrs. Hudson hummed at the steering wheel, but didn’t move her eyes from the road as Sherlock finished. “You will never leave my side. It’s what I’ve ordered.”

                Nodding officially, Sherlock turned back to the window to admire John’s responding smile as it lit up the backseat and made him squint at the glare on the glass.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	12. Simplistic Beauty

                Hiding away his favourite things was a habit that defined Sherlock throughout his young life; his books went into a certain drawer in his dresser; his experiments were stowed away underneath his bed and not to be touched be strangers; even his mother was tucked away into a far corner of the Holmes Summer Estate, Sherlock could recall. He took her to the outside garden and hid with her behind the rose bushes and kept her far away from Father and Mycroft alike. Not to be touched. His favourite things were taken away and kept from those who didn’t deserve to touch them.

                Now, as he was older and much wiser, Sherlock knew that it was futile to hide his favourite things. Mycroft would easily see through the blockades and indifference and protective lies, and dig through things that weren’t his until he found the source of Sherlock’s odd behaviour – even if there was no odd behaviour. They had hounds that sniffed out Sherlock’s drug habits two years ago, and he hadn’t dared to return to the activity in fear that Mycroft would follow through with his designated punishment of sending Sherlock to live with their father.

                Even though he knew hiding away his favourite things from Mycroft was a fruitless labour, and hiding certain things was truly childish and unbecoming, Sherlock had no qualms with hiding John away. As Mrs. Hudson parked the car in front of the Summer Estate, she made an idle note of the obvious fact that it had begun to rain. With a pinched expression from the landlady and a sympathetic hum from John, Sherlock pushed himself out of the car and waited for John to grab his bag of new clothing and trotting easily to the front door. He knew that the Sentry would follow him, true to his vow, leaving Mrs. Hudson to bother with her umbrella a mere ten feet from the front door.

“We’re going to my room, John.”

                Sherlock said lowly, gaining a warm blast of John’s content warmth against his right shoulder as he opened the front door. Spider webs of thin thought had strewn themselves across Sherlock’s Mind Palace, leaving it messy and dripping with the translucent strings. Cobwebs everywhere, dangling and distracting; Sherlock had to organize. He had to think. He needed John to be there, to get rid of the cobwebs, and somehow take every piece of the web down, or fold it somehow. John’s sunlight hands would be able to take apart the web bit by bit, Sherlock thought as he sauntered down the hall towards his room with John in tow.

John would take the first string and begin to wind it up with explanations and demonstrations; he would roll up the cobwebs in his Mind Palace in a neat ball. Like yarn. Like twine. Like thread. John would tell him stories, John would show him sunlight, and John would do anything he wanted, because they had become something more than a Deity and a Sentry. Like magic. Like friendship. Like partners. John, Sherlock knew, would let him see his true form if he ordered it, and Sherlock was also sure that John wanted to be seen for who he really was. Like truth. Like reality.

Not a mask.

“Go inside.” Sherlock said crisply as he held open his bedroom door. John complied easily, giving the taller teen a cautious look as Sherlock closed the door behind them. “Put that down.”

                Even if Sherlock was being terse with his commands, John pursed his lips and set down his bag of new clothes down next to the door obediently. Not bothering to explain himself, Sherlock took John’s arm and pulled him towards the bed, all the while ignoring the strangled noise of protest that came from John’s startled lips. He was determined, and John was always willing to make him happy, if he could.

“Sit.” John tripped over his own feet as he fell sideways onto the blankets while Sherlock situated himself atop the covers smoothly. “Now, I have questions. I expect straight answers.”

John smiled nervously as he sat on the bed, his legs hanging over the edge just like Sherlock’s – like equals Sherlock imagined – and eyed the Deity warily. “As opposed to bent answers?”

“Whatever.” Sherlock waved the suggestion away. “Now, tell me about the people who were marked; why are Sentry’s marked like that? Is it some sort of ritual, or…”

“No, no.” John’s smile melted down into something familiar as he shook his head. “Nothing like that… it’s natural.”

A quirked eyebrow from Sherlock. “Natural?”

“Yes, if you can see it that way. I guess for someone like you,” Sherlock grimaced, and John reached over to pat his knee in a comforting manner. “It would seem a bit odd, but for anyone else, the Markings of a Sentry are natural. Like our powers and strengths, Markings are just another thing that ties us to the higher plain, just below Gods and Goddesses.”

Nodding, Sherlock shifted closer to John and leaned towards him. “But how does it _work_?”

“Work?” John blinked spastically, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why does it happen? How is it done? How is it natural if there are different patterns and colours for different Sentries? What does it mean?”

                John held his hands up in surrender, as if the questions were some sort of invasive interrogation that somehow made him nervous. The gesture wasn’t a bothered one, though; it merely sat on the border of thoughtfulness and amusement with John’s sunlight smile.

“One at a time, Sherlock.” The Deity rolled his eyes, and John was quick to catch up with the questions, idly turning the ring on his right hand ring finger; Sherlock noticed, and his own hands itched to simply reach over and tear the ring off of John’s hand, just to see what John was hiding beneath his feeble mask. “Why does it happen? Well, I guess it happens because we are the way that we are. And before you go telling me that’s not an answer, it is. It’s the best one I can give you.

                “You see it’s… really, It’s a lot to do with the Gods’ life and energy that we’re given; it changes things within us, and because of that, we’re not quite like anything else, on Earth, or in the Heavens.” John smiled at his hands as he went on. “Our Markings are an identifying trait; it sets us apart from others, and give us a place in our society. There are different Sentries that are stronger than others, but that doesn’t matter much when you get right down to it. I mean, we aren’t given a choice on who we can be, we just get lucky enough that our contracts and oaths are given to good Gods or Deities.” Shrugging loosely, John turned his gaze back to Sherlock with a smile. “I guess I got pretty lucky in that case.

                “As for how it’s done, it’s simply natural. It happens when we’re born; it’s like how a baby is developed over a series of months – bones, organs, skin and the rest – we are very much the same in that case, except we’re formed instantly with the Markings carved into our very souls by the life and places we were born.”

Sherlock’s interest sparked at the idea of the curving designs being carved into John’s skin, but there was an irrational sense of nervousness that made him voice his opinion without really thinking about it.

“Carved into your soul. Would that hurt?”

John pursed his lips and shrugged again, twisting the ring on his finger slowly.

“I’m not sure. Do you think it hurts when people get freckles?” Sherlock glared at John and the Sentry let out a glowing laugh that stained the room a kind shade of sunlight. “Sherlock, you know I’m joking, don’t you? Gods, that expression; you’re either about to hit me or eat me, I can’t quite tell which.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched with a smile. “Both, if you’re lucky.” John laughed again.

“I don’t know if I’d like to be devoured today. I’d rather be eaten when the sun is actually shining outside, thank you.”

                With that, John looked over his shoulder wistfully to watch the rain pattered sadly against the windowpane. The expression on John’s face was one that made almost hinted at something that could easily been associated with loneliness; odd enough, it made Sherlock upset. As if the idea of John being lonely was one that truly bothered Sherlock on a level that the brunette couldn’t quite understand; as if he wanted to be the reason John never felt lonely again. Clearing his throat, Sherlock taped the tops of his knees with his palms.

“Duly noted. Now then. Why did all of the Sentries Markings look different? I thought it was something that varied by type of Sentry because the Wind Sentries all had the sweeping kind of marks. Then I saw that the Earth Sentries had various kinds of marks, from lines to strange star shapes. Why is that?”

                Retraining his eyes on Sherlock, John shifted on the bed so that they were sitting closer together, as if the further the conversation went, the more personal it was. The more personal the conversation was, the closer the two of them were. Sherlock felt his stomach twist nervously; if they continued to get closer, eventually there would be no space left. He had seen other boys at his school pressed together in an odd tangle of limbs behind the back wall of the dorms. Never, Sherlock had once thought, would he want such a thing. And then there was John.

                John next to him on the blankets; John sleeping next to him in his father’s old study; John in the Strange House; John with him in the city. All of it was different from everything Sherlock had ever experienced. What Sherlock wanted was something he’d never thoughts he’d want; it was something that would’ve gotten in the way of his experiments and his more important hobbies. Now John was simply in his mind no matter what he did. Not that it truly bothered him.

“Why… I think it’s just a matter of different people having their own personalities. I mean, I’ve never met a Sentry who had a twin, but I suppose if they were identical, their Markings might be the same as well.” John puzzled on this for a moment longer before blinking hard and giving Sherlock a slightly embarrassed smile. “I’m not quite sure how to explain it. And, I think I’ve just confused myself trying to… is there anything else I can tell you?”

                Giving the matter serious consideration, Sherlock thought of asking John why the Trader had been so forward as to approach the two of them in the market, but simply opted to ask the question he’d been wanting to ask since the first day John had begun to teach him.

“Why do you use that ring, John? I could understand if you were always with normal human beings, they would think so many tattoos would be strange, but… they just look like tattoos. What makes you different from the others?”

John licked his lips and shook his head with a smile.

“I knew that was coming. I just knew… Sherlock.” The Sentry gave his Deity a long look before continuing. “Your mother ordered me to keep this ring on my finger to keep who I am a secret.”

“I order you to take it off.”

John raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed with flushed cheeks. “Be a little more specific, please.”

“John, I order you to take off the ring and show me your Markings.”

                The flush on John’s cheeks didn’t leave, but his eyes moved back to catch Sherlock’s with a nervous glint in them. His left hand moved over his right and pulled a bit at the ring before lowering his eyes to the floor and repeating Sherlock’s order as he normally did.

“I understand. I will take off the ring, and show you my… my Markings until you instruct me otherwise.” John licked his lips again and looked back up to Sherlock. “Just… close your eyes for a minute?” Lifting a speculative eyebrow, Sherlock gave John a sidelong stare that was sure to convey his confusion at the request, but complied after a moment, letting his eyes shut quickly. “It’s just… I don’t want to upset you Sherlock. Maybe you just need to think about what a simple person I am. Simplicity is my specialty, if you can imagine it. My Markings aren’t much to look at in comparison to the others’. Really, I… I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You won’t, John.” Sherlock felt the mattress dip next to him as John stood and walked around to stand in front of him pensively. “You’ll never disappoint me. Let me see.”

A pause, then there was the sound of the ring falling to the floor with a sad ‘clink’ as it was abandoned and forgotten. Sherlock took a breath, and heard John mimic the action as they both prepared themselves for what the Deity had ordered.

“Alright. Alright, you can look.”

                Opening his eyes, Sherlock was met with a sight that he hadn’t expected; it wasn’t like a tattoo or birthmark. No, it was more than that. It was pure sunlight itself, bath John in more radiance than Sherlock had thought was possible as he stood before him.

                There, among the honeycomb pallor of his skin, lay Markings that held their own kind of sunshine glow. V-shaped slivers of sunflower gold mapped John’s collarbone, leaving room for curling, spinning designs along his abdomen and arms. Kind, flowering shapes reached around the line of John’s hair, curving about his cheeks and sweeping to frame his eyes, still their natural robin-egg blue. It was the suns warmth and the suns glow, all mapped out for Sherlock too see – a part of John in every way.

“Beautiful.” Sherlock breathed, reaching out and tracing a finger over the unnatural colours resting on John’s arm. His fascination was clear, and John made no move to stop the Markings from broadcasting his pride in the form of a more noticeable gleam.

“Not really.” John smiled at Sherlock as he raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I’m… really, the designs of my Markings are exceptionally ordinary. It’s the light that makes them different.”

                With that, John took a step back, and took a cleansing breath, as if something incredible was about to happen. As John’s hands – graced with spinning as well as jolting patterns along the tops of his fingers – grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled up, Sherlock blinked stupidly and leaned back.

“What are you doing?”

                Pulling the shirt over his head and letting it fall to the floor, John let Sherlock sit in awe as the bare skin was exposed. More of the designs were etched into John’s skin, as if he was a canvas for some sort of abstract calligraphy. The marking glowed without John’s happy emotion, simply letting him be the sunlight he was born to be without having to have a reason to be such. Sherlock looked over every strong part of John’s arms, following the trail of Markings over his chest and down the taut skin of his chest and abdomen, he swallowed as several patterns interlaced and crossed to dip down beneath the elastic of John’s trousers.

“I’m showing you my Markings. You wanted… to see my Markings, so, I’m showing you.”

                Being flustered was not a feeling Sherlock enjoyed, and when John hooked his thumbs under the band of his trousers in an obvious show that he was about to pull them down, the brunette felt his face burn as he shook his head vigorously.

“No!” He glanced to the door and realized that Mycroft could possibly hear him. “No. John, stop. You don’t have to undress to show me. I’ve seen enough, for now.”

“But, you’ve already ordered me.” John sputtered, gripping the tops of his trousers as if he was fighting the urge to simply strip and have it done with. “I can’t just… disobey, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock felt much too warm as he thought of John pulling down his trousers and revealing… what? Was that really what Sherlock wanted? As John let his trousers start to come down, Sherlock felt his breath catch, and he jolted forward to catch John’s hands. Kneeling in front of the Sentry and pulling the trousers back up, Sherlock gave a strangled order as the law of motion declared that his body would continue forward, and his forehead would be pressed to John’s stomach as a result.

“I order you to stop!”

John gasped at the sudden movement, but removed one hand from the waistband of his trousers to settle in Sherlock’s hair. The brunette tried to fight the strange ripple of pleasure that surged through him at their proximity and John’s actions. He could feel John’s shaking breathes as the Markings on his skin glowed a burning luteous shade, echoing the warmth Sherlock felt against his face as his mouth brushed hotly against the white elastic that held John’s trousers up.

“Stop what?

“Stop taking off your clothes. I order you…” Sherlock felt John’s hands shake as they settled atop his shoulders as if to brace himself. Sherlock raised his head and saw John looking down at him: shallow breaths, pupil dilation, and the hazy cloud of _something_ in his eyes; John was aroused. Feeling himself grip John’s hips just a bit tighter, Sherlock finished his sentence. “… to stop.”


	13. No Paperwork Necessary

“Right then.” Sherlock stood up quickly, watching as John blinked rapidly and nodded unevenly. “I’m just… John, sit there.”

He pointed at the bed and watched as John obediently sat with a horrified expression; he knew that he’d given himself away. Sherlock ignored this and began to pace, debating the pros and cons of simply pushing John down onto the bed, having his own way, and solving the mystery of his stirring feelings. On one hand, John had been aroused by Sherlock’s close proximity, but on the other, it could’ve had something to do with the inappropriateness of a Deity kneeling before a lower form. Sherlock didn’t want to think on politics, not when his stomach was making itself into a strange churning mechanism and his brain felt as if he’d shot up a dose of pure cocaine; all adrenaline and pure fascination with _everything._

“I’m going to get something to drink. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t let Mycroft into my room. Don’t let him see…” John glanced up and feebly tried to hide his exposed chest behind his arms. “…all of that. I’ll be back in a moment.”

                Not stopping to breathe, Sherlock turned and promptly slipped out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him and making haste in his pursuit to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson would know what to do; she was a woman who knew what to do in strange sentimental and social situations such as these, didn’t she? Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek; John had looked down at him with a look that the Deity had not be expecting. He had suspect that for some time that John was getting closer to him and eliminating the space between them with careful glances and nonchalant touches to his hands or shoulders. But the look in his eyes had thrown the brunette for a loop.

                It was a look that showed Sherlock that he didn’t want there to be any space between them at all. Nothing to stop them from touching anything, everything; or perhaps Sherlock was just seeing the reflection of something he wanted in John’s eyes. Which was right?

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said as he entered the kitchen, immediately catching a stiff stare from Mycroft, who was leaning against the counter. The teen froze mid-pace and glared at his half-brother. “Ah. Mycroft. Wonderful; it just so happens that I didn’t want to see you.”

“What a coincidence, because I’m set on ruining your afternoon.” The older Holmes remarked snidely, lifting his coffee cup to his lips and taking a slow drink as Sherlock’s skin crawled uncomfortably, all previous warmth from John having left in the man’s presence. “How was the city? I assume you and John had quite a time, what with you stowing him away in your room as soon as you got home.”

                Sherlock looked to Mrs. Hudson, who was currently sitting at the table with her book held defensively in front of her face, refusing to meet Sherlock’s gaze. She had been the one to tell Mycroft that they had been shut up in Sherlock’s room; Sherlock frowned.

“You came into the kitchen for Mrs. Hudson.” Mycroft noted smoothly as he set his cup down on the counter behind him with a thinly arched eyebrow. “What did you need? Biscuits? Tea? Something to help you with…” Mycroft looked Sherlock up and down, no doubt seeing all of the lines and wrinkles in his clothing that hinted to his kneeling and his reaching up for something unknown. “Whatever it is you’re doing in your bedroom?” _With John_ , Mycroft said with a tilt of his head.

                Not wanting to speak nor reveal what he was really doing with John, Sherlock locked his jaw and glared at the surface of the table. He moved to sit next to Mrs. Hudson, who glanced at him bashfully as she set down her book and gave him a murmured apology; it didn’t matter. He wanted to know what to do next. He didn’t like not knowing what to do next. He liked to know everything that he wanted to know, and John was not a subject that he was an expert on, no matter how much he wanted to be. Mycroft rounded the kitchen, putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he walked and talked to no one in particular.

“John seems to have come from nowhere. He is an interesting young man, isn’t he? John _Hamish_ Watson.” Sherlock grit his teeth and looked up to see Mycroft watching him carefully. “He’s not registered to any police department, schools, or even hospitals. Fascinating. Nowhere in the world is there a John Watson that fits the description of the one currently residing in my house.” Mycroft’s lips turned up into a knowing smile as Sherlock lowered his eyes to the table and glared at the wooden surface. “According to the paperwork, the John Watson in my house doesn’t exist.”

“Well, obviously, he exists, Mycroft. He’s here in the hose.” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, having nothing else that he wanted to say. “Your paperwork must be wrong.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and his grin turned into something more reptile than human; all sharp eyes and teeth. Mrs. Hudson shifted in her seat, looking back and forth between the brothers uneasily.

“My _paperwork_ is not the thing that is wrong in this house.”

“It doesn’t matter, John is John. Who cares?”

“I care, Sherlock.”

                Turning up his eyes to eye his brother sharply, Sherlock curled his hands into fists and took a deep breath. Paperwork shouldn’t have been the reason for John to have to leave this house; he was something beyond Mycroft’s comprehension, and that didn’t make him a criminal.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock repeated, watching Mycroft lean back against one of the kitchen counters slowly. He wished that he knew how to create tangible dreams; a good strike of lightning would set Mycroft in his place, or perhaps giving him a large cake would distract him long enough for Sherlock to take John and stow him away someplace else. “It shouldn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters, Sherlock. There is an undocumented young man living in the Summer Estate. He is in no public record whatsoever. The John Watson currently under this roof has never been seen by anyone on seven continents around the world. Though his name may be common, his face is nowhere in public registrations.” Mycroft leaned away from the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Sherlock, I know that you think he’s interesting, but he’s not real. He’s not John Watson. He can’t be.”

                Sherlock could say that Mummy’s diary claimed differently: that John was who he said he was simply for the fact that Mummy gave him that name. He could come clean with the truth, and drag John away from his bedroom to give Mycroft the glowing proof of what he said. Even though he could really tell Mycroft that he knew they were only half-brothers, and their mother was a Goddess, and that Mrs. Hudson was trusted with the family secret long ago, Sherlock knew that it wouldn’t matter; John was simply something that Mycroft couldn’t manipulate.

                John was loyal to Sherlock or his mother, and no one else. Mycroft couldn’t bribe or sway his devotion away, he could merely sit back and watch as the boys grew closer with time. Not even a whole day had gone by with John in the house, and already Mycroft was fighting the decision with all of his might, digging into population and security data and trying to push John out of the house by force. Sherlock wouldn’t have it, and neither would John. Sherlock didn’t want John to leave for many reasons – some of which he was avoiding, just as he avoided that situation he had currently left for John to ponder alone. John didn’t want to leave for the fact that he had been ordered not to – though Sherlock wouldn’t deny being a little bit glad when he saw that look in John’s eye when they sat together. He knew that John didn’t want to go because he had found something of a friend in the boisterous Holmes.

                Sherlock didn’t want him to leave, either. He didn’t want Mycroft snooping anymore, even though he knew the ginger headed Holmes would never cease his attempts to push John away. He didn’t want Mrs. Hudson looking at him pitifully as he sat at table, working his jaw and blinking at his brothers’ shoes in a frustrated manner. He wanted to go back to John. John always knew how to make things better with a soft glow or a gentle smile; would John still smile for him, after he had left the Sentry alone in his room? He didn’t know. Sherlock didn’t like not knowing things.

“I don’t have time for this.”

                Sherlock decided aloud, pushing away from the table only to be caught up in Mycroft’s cutting answer. Cutting answer; what a fitting phrase. The answer did cut down into Sherlock’s skin, grasping and holding fast with small fibres that refused to release him. It was a branch that snagged in his hair when he was walking in the woods, or a bur that stuck to the leg of his trousers: there and simply not ignorable as he went on his way.

“When will you have time to tell me the truth, Sherlock?”

The Deity took calming breaths before he answered. “Never.” He walked around the table to stand in front of his brother, eye to eye as he spoke. “I will never have time to tell you the truth, you insufferable halfwit. You don’t understand when the truth is staring you in the face, so why should I take time out of my life to show you what it is? Truth doesn’t need documents or paperwork, Mycroft. You of all people know that. You go around this blasted country making things ‘right’ all the time with your ‘truth’.” Sherlock threw air quotes into the context just to make Mycroft scowl. “John is who he says he is, and he does _not_ need papers to prove it. I know it’s true.”

“You will never convince me without proof.”

                Mycroft said blandly, watching his brother with the traces of a scowl still on his face. Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, imagining Mycroft’s eyes burning in their sockets as he glared. He was angry. He was frustrated. He wanted John to make it all go away; he could order John to make Mycroft disappear. He doubted that the body would be found if he did order such a thing. But, Mummy loved Mycroft, and Sherlock didn’t want to be the one to explain why Mycroft’s body was distributed among several different kinds of wood chipping companies.

No, what he wanted was for John to make things better. He wanted to be distracted in the most simplistic ways, and John had said himself that he was a simplistic person. Sherlock wanted to map out each line and curve of John’s body with his fingers so that he could store it away in his Mind Palace for future reference. He wanted to see what made John squirm or gasp, and he wanted to see John look at him the way he did in his twisted dreams. Sherlock took a step back from Mycroft, reigning in his imagination and turning his face to the wall in hopes of hiding the no doubt obvious dilation of his pupils.

“Mummy would’ve believed me.”

                Not bothering to listen as Mycroft began to sputter at the mention of their mother, Sherlock turned on his heel and gave up on asking for Mrs. Hudson’s advice. Direct attack was the only option that Sherlock wanted to think about. He didn’t want to sit and think about what he was going to do; he was all action and thinking on his feet. Planning too far ahead opened up too many channels for failure, and Sherlock didn’t want to think about failure. As he left the kitchen, Sherlock decided that it was too late to turn back, and whatever he did was going to be saw through to the end, no breaks in between and no pause for judgement. John had looked at him almost expectantly, and Sherlock was not going to walk away a second time.

“John,” Sherlock said as he stepped into his bedroom quickly, shutting the door behind himself. “You don’t need paperwork.”

John stood from the bed, still shirtless and still glowing with his natural Markings, before licking his lips and narrowing his eyes. Sherlock let his eyes scan over the exposed tan skin quickly before refocusing on the blondes’ eyes as he spoke.

“What?”

                Stepping further into the room, Sherlock caught John’s biceps and pulled John’s face close to his own, as if the proximity would somehow make the message clearer. He wanted John to know that he didn’t need proof; Sherlock believed everything John had told him, from his mother being a Goddess to the fact that John was made from the Suns’ energy. Sherlock trusted him, and that in and of itself was an achievement.

“You don’t need paperwork. I know that you are who you are. Do you understand?”

“No.” John blinked, his nose almost touching Sherlock’s as his Markings glowed a hot white. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What are you saying?”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, pushing John away and hearing the Sentry yelp as his legs caught on the edge of the bed and sent him sprawling back over the mattress. Sherlock took the chance and kicked off his shoes before crawling onto the bed and looming over John. The Sentry gasped and held his breath, as if he thought Sherlock was going to say something vastly incredible that would somehow steal away his ability to breathe if he didn’t store away oxygen in advance.

“You are John.” Sherlock said slowly, over annunciating his words and causing the blonde to roll his eyes and sigh dramatically. “But that’s not just a name, it’s who you are. You are John, and I will see you as nobody else, even if you claim to be someone else. Now do you understand?”

John made a face. “I think you made it worse.”

                Sherlock didn’t care about making his point clear, anymore. Words were getting him nowhere with the blue eyed creature, so his only logical option left was to show him with body language. Closing his eyes, Sherlock dipped his head down and pressed his lips against John’s for only a moment, feeling the oddly warm sensation of John’s slightly chapped lips against his, and the pull of John’s frantic hands as they sought out his shoulders. John held him there, his heated hands gripping the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt desperately as he did. But, it was only a moment, and Sherlock pulled his head back to admire the stunned expression on John’s face.

“I trust you, John.” The teen said quietly, watching as John’s wide eyes blinked rapidly, as if he was just adjusting to the situation and replacing his frightened pale cheeks with flushed ones as he settled into his emotions. “I trust you to tell me the truth. Do you understand me now?”

John licked his lips and closed his eyes briefly before they fluttered open again.

“Not sure. Maybe you should tell me again.”

                And that’s just what Sherlock did. He took John’s lower lip between his own and kissed, moved down and kissed his chin, his cheek, his ears; anything he could reach. Which was everything, because John was happily spread out before him like butter on hot toast. Tension caught in his muscles as his left arm kept him propped up over John and his right hand was given access to the smooth plane of John’s chest, moving across and sweeping over each Marking. Sherlock was happy to have the ability to touch John without having to force himself forward – John was reciprocating each caress of his lips with delighted gasps and open mouthed kisses to his jaw – but he was still unsatisfied.

                There wasn’t enough of him to map out every line soon enough; there was too much of John to explore and not enough time to get it all done. Sherlock pulled himself back and looked down at his Sentry, seeing the flexed muscles of his abdomen and the dip of his chest when he took a breath, everything above and everything below; it all had to be seen. There were Markings hidden underneath the waistband of John’s trousers that he wanted access to, not because it was ordered, but because John _wanted_ him to see them. Sherlock could feel the Markings that spiralled over John’s skin, hot and tingling beneath his fingertips as he traced one across John’s shoulder. John licked his lips and gave Sherlock a nervous stare as the Deity scrutinized him.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and hummed thoughtfully. “I want to do things, but there are so many things I want to do, I can’t decide where to start.”

                Squirming uncomfortably under Sherlock’s searching eyes, John sat up and gave the teen a serious look. It was an odd look, to Sherlock; it was a look that demanded attention. John was normally happy to receive orders and not being the one handing them out. Sherlock watched him warily, still holding himself up with his left hand stationed heavily atop the blankets.

“Well… why do you want to do those things?”

“Why? Because I want to.” John didn’t seem impressed with that answer, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried different answers, each one just as true as the last. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to do those things with. Because you’re fascinating. Because I want to know everything about you.”

John looked at his hands in his lap while Sherlock sat down on the back next to him.

“What happens if I’m not fascinating anymore?” John said quietly, making Sherlock frown. “Will you still want to do those things? Will you still want to spend time with me?”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice rang out sternly in the room, gaining the Sentry’s attention and bringing his eyes up from his hands to watch Sherlock. “You are my best friend. My only friend. You will always be, and will never stop being fascinating. People change, John. It’s a scientific fact. And when you change, I want to be there to see it.” John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him again, swallowing up the words before leaning back again. “I want to do so many things, and know everything about you; don’t change yet. Don’t even think about changing, yet.”

John’s cheeks, already lit up in a blush, turned a shade darker and stained the skin over his cheekbones a light scarlet while his Markings seemed to shimmer and pulse.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.” Sherlock lied. What if he did something wrong? He’d never touched anyone the way he wanted to touch John. “I’m a genius. Don’t you trust me?”

                John didn’t answer, he merely smiled and shrugged loosely, as if the weighted topic had somehow morphed into a light-hearted chat between the two of them. Sherlock smiled as well, glad that his overconfidence had successfully fooled John; it didn’t take much to fool John, though. After all, John was a simple young man. And when John cautiously moved closer to hold his lips just a breath away from Sherlock’s, the curly hair teen made no move to erase the smile; John kissed him. It felt different from the way he had kissed John earlier, when their lips had been relaxed; now there were smiles to add into the equation.

                Lips curved around elation unspoken, and hands trembling to map out curves previously unexplored; it was a strange feeling for Sherlock. Not a feeling he disagreed with, but a feeling that he stored away into his Mind Palace for deeper thought later. His stomach twisted into pleasant knots when John pulled away only to press their lips together again, his warm hands coming up to cup the sides of his face. If Sherlock hadn’t known that John had been locked away in the Strange House all of his life, he would’ve thought that he’d done this before. Sherlock’s fingers chased over the line of John’s collarbone and down his chest, tracing different Markings when they crossed his path.

                When John moaned at the contact, Sherlock felt his eyelids flutter open with the lazy desire to see John’s expression. He wasn’t granted such a luxury because John’s head had ducked away, and his face was hidden in the junction between Sherlock’s neck and his shoulder. Sherlock took deep breaths, feeling his mind race during the brief intermission.

“What does it feel like?”

John huffed hotly against his neck, and Sherlock could feel John’s lips curl into a smile.

“What?”

“I want to know,” Sherlock pushed John back and heard a rush of oxygen leave John’s heated lips as he fell back quietly against the mattress. Scrambling to hover over John with excitement burning in his eyes, Sherlock held himself up on his right hand this time as his left hand smoothed over countless spirals of glowing Markings. “What does it feel like? Is it different from other skin? Is it sensitive? I want to know what’s different.”

                John laughed, his eyes scrunching closed and his hands coming up to cover them as if he couldn’t stand the idea of opening his eyes at the moment. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the different Markings on John’s chest and looking down at the waistband of John’s trousers before catching a glint of gold on the floor; the ring his mother had given John. Sherlock brought his face close to John’s in hopes that urgency would be delivered through the movement.

“Do the Markings still feel sensitive when you’re wearing the ring, John? John, pay attention.” The Sentry’s mouth shaped around words, but none escape his lips as more laughter ensued; Sherlock scowled. “Take me seriously.”

“I trying, I swear!” John giggled, his hands lifting from his eyes to bathe Sherlock in an azure eyed gaze as his golden hands brushed at the hair that swept over Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re so excited. I can’t help but laugh, Sherlock. You looked so startled.”

Sherlock arched a doubtful eyebrow. “I was _not_ startled.”

“Yeah, you were.” John licked his lips, his tongue nearly catching on Sherlock’s own lips and earning himself a feverish kiss from the Deity. Sherlock pulled away a few moments later; the two of them were gasping and staring at each other before they both started smiling. “It’s a little different,” John finally murmured through his smile. “Not very sensitive, but more… intimate, I suppose. If that makes sense. The ring dulled all of those senses, like putting a bandage over a burn to keep it from stinging. Except, it’s not painful at all… I don’t think I’m making sense anymore.”

                Sherlock opened his mouth to question the idea of the ring dulling his senses, but there was the incessant rap of knuckles against the wood doorframe. The raring excitement that boiled in Sherlock’s blood became a low effervescing thrum as he and John looked to the door; Mycroft.

“Go away, Mycroft.”

                His brother would have never knocked if he hadn’t heard the conversation going on inside the room; he had most likely been eavesdropping. Reaching over the side of the bed and wincing at the sound of the creaking bedsprings, Sherlock took the ring up off of the floor and whispered a rushed order in John’s ear.

“I order you to wear this ring when Mycroft is near; it doesn’t matter if you don’t wear it with me or Mrs. Hudson.”

                John didn’t repeat the order this time, opting to slip the ring onto his finger and not silently. Sherlock watched in quiet captivation as the Sentry closed his eyes and looked almost uncomfortable when his Markings ceased to glow and seemingly recede into his skin until they were no longer visible.

“We need to talk, Sherlock.”

Sherlock let himself settle down atop John, pausing for only a moment to give John a questioning glance when his thigh pressed against the warm, hard ridge between John’s legs. The blonde made a flustered noise and turned his head away from the door, giving the windowpane an embarrassed glare. Sherlock smiled around his response.

“I’m busy at the moment.”

“And _that_ is the reason why we should talk.” Mycroft grumbled loudly to the door as Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s chin – John didn’t turn away from the window. “I’m coming in, Sherlock.”

                Giving out a strangled refusal, John covered his face with his hands as Mycroft opened the door and stood in the doorway with a frozen expression. Sherlock gave him a pointed look and raised an eyebrow before shifting on top of John, feeling the stiffness of John’s arousal wane in Mycroft’s presence.

“I said I’m busy. Come back later.”

Mycroft blinked and ruffled himself back into composure, as if seeing his brother willingly lay on top of another boy had rustled his feathers and he had puffed too far out to ignore. His hand still rested on the doorknob, tapping out Beethoven’s fifth as he spoke.

“Sherlock, I know you think that you know what you’re doing,”

“Of course I do.” Sherlock turned his face back to John’s, watching as the blonde peeked up at him through his tanned fingers with a shy smile.

“No. No, you don’t, Sherlock. What you’re doing,” Mycroft licked his lips and pivoted his weight from his left foot to his right foot uncomfortably. “You haven’t really thought it through.”

“Are you trying to talk to me about sex, Mycroft? I think I learned everything I needed to know in Health Education classes.”

John smiled wider and Sherlock responded in kind, not lifting himself away from the Sentry in hopes that the closeness of the two would frighten Mycroft away. It didn’t. The older Holmes rolled his eyes and put one hand on his hip with an unimpressed expression.

“You were sent to the Deans’ office almost every day of those classes because you would tell the teacher he was illiterate.”

“He was.” Sherlock retorted quickly, reaching up his right hand to push John’s fingers from his mouth; if Mycroft wouldn’t squirm because of close proximity, he would just sweat him out. Kissing John was a pleasurable experience, so it didn’t seem like a chore as Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s; he was committing intimate acts with John and getting rid of his half- brother in one simple action. What more could a Deity want? Sherlock pulled back for a breath, spitting out another sharp: “Get out, Mycroft” before ducking his head back down and taking John’s lips again.

“Listen to me, Sherlock. Get off of him, _now._ ”

Growling, Sherlock sat up and held John down with a firm hand atop his chest.

“I’m not doing drugs, Mycroft.”

“I see that.”

“I’m not mixing anything dangerously acidic with anything flammable, and I’m not going through the files in your computer like I did last summer.” Mycroft’s patience was on the verge of disintegrating, and Sherlock was quick to finish. “Why can’t I do something that is neither a harmful to myself or the British government without you telling me to stop?”

“Sherlock,”

“Do you want me to go through your files, instead?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, and Sherlock knew that he’d won.

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock looked down at John with a smug smile, and John shook his head with an even bigger smile. Mycroft gave in, turning on his heel and pulling the door shut, only to leave with a hint of sarcastic advice. “Try not to make a mess. Remember, Mrs. Hudson will be doing your laundry, in the end.”

                For the first time in his life with Mycroft, Sherlock felt smothered in something that was frighteningly similar to sentiment. It was as if Mycroft cared about him, but Sherlock was sure that it couldn’t be so; that couldn’t be the case. No, Mycroft cared about his job, his father, and his secrets – most of which weren’t secrets to Sherlock for long. Not that he needed Mycroft’s secrets.

                No. All that Sherlock needed was to turn back to John, which he did. All Sherlock needed was to feel John’s fingers carding through is hair, and the brush of lips against his own, which was readily given to him.  All Sherlock needed was to find John’s left hand and pull the ring away, feeling the Markings along John’s skin and listen with anticipation as the Sentry shivered and panted beneath him, which was simply done with a flick of his wrist.

All Sherlock really wanted was to tug away John’s trousers and see the Markings that had almost been presented to him earlier. So, tucking his hand under the band of John’s clean white trousers and pants, Sherlock gave the blonde a sparing glance. The Sentry smiled and lifted his hips just enough to give Sherlock the room he needed.

And then John’s trousers were thrown across the room.


	14. Dream vs Reality

“What about here?”

Sherlock lifted his chin from where it rested atop John’s knee to watch John as he squirmed and laughed harder than before. Contrary to his former beliefs, his exploration of John’s body was proving to be more frustrating that relieving; every time he would brush his fingers over the curve of John’s hips, the blonde would gasp and start to giggle. No matter how many times he asked why John would laugh, John would only respond with something unintelligent and flustered. Sherlock felt his own cock sitting stiffly in his trousers, and more than once he took John’s hand pressed his palm to the heavy organ, but just as John would start to smile, Sherlock would rolled his eyes and watch as John started to laugh all over again.

This fact didn’t deter the Deity as he moved his hand down John’s thigh, tracing different curls of Markings as he went. Unspoken words were lingering in the air, and it wasn’t just John’s laughter that kept them from being spoken; it was Sherlock’s inability to find the correct words to describe what he was feeling. It couldn’t be love. Love was an indescribable feeling, and no one person could express it as easily as saying it. Sherlock wanted to love John, but he wasn’t sure if he really felt the intense feelings of affection that were supposed to be present for the emotion to be considered real.

The internal debate of whether or not he loved John was starting to irritate Sherlock, and Mycroft’s earlier words rang true in his mind: _You haven’t really thought it through_. He was thinking too much on the subject, and was distracting himself from the task at hand: learning everything about John’s body. He wanted to be in love with John, but he wasn’t sure if there was more that he needed to do to prove his feelings were true. Bracing his left hand on John’s knee Sherlock moved his right hand back up John’s thigh and brushed his fingers across the Marking that led to John’s cock, straining and waiting for him. John started to laugh again.

“No, not… Sherlock!” John gasped and pushed Sherlock away and sent the Deity rolling across the mattress until he hit the wall. Sitting up quickly, John was still laughing as he leaned over Sherlock and brushed his hair from his sweat slicked forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I… ha! That’s what I was… maybe we should try this a different way? That is, if you…” John bit his lower lip and snorted as he tried to hold down another laugh. “If you still want to. I haven’t really been helping.”

Sherlock sighed and glared up at the ceiling.

“’Intimate’, you said.” He said lowly, his body telling him to give up on the idea of talking to John as the blondes hand sat easily on his hip, thoroughly distracting him. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, blinking a few times and regaining his train of thought. “These Markings seem to be more ticklish than they’re ‘intimate’, John.”

“I’m sorry.” John moved himself so that he was draped halfway over Sherlock. With one leg settled between Sherlock’s and a warm hand lying atop Sherlock’s wrinkled purple shirt. “I haven’t had much experience with this. I’ll be serious.” John tried to smother his smile as Sherlock turned his glare on him. “I promise.”

“Promises are meant to be broken. Say something else.”

                Confused for only a beat, John held himself frozen before his expression cracked open in a wide smile. Golden laughter was pressed into Sherlock's neck, hot and moist against his skin, and he couldn't contain his own lower pitched echo of the sound. It created an odd harmony in a minor key that reminded Sherlock of an orchestra when the conductor was trying to make an audience hold their breath for the next note in the piece, pausing only for a moment to change the key.

“Would it change anything if I said that you’re beautiful, Sherlock?”

Pursing his lips for a moment, Sherlock blinked slowly.

“Not really.”

John made a face and Sherlock brought his hands up from the sides of the pillows where they lay and caught his long fingers in John's hair, pushing the flaxen crown back to gain a sideways glance at John's tension relieved face, flooded with a shining smile that could rattle the stars if he so wished it.

                He pressed his lips over that smile, wanting to swallow it up and take it into his heart, to drink up the laughter that was too sweet to be heard by anyone else. Sherlock mapped out the contours of John's shoulders – careful of the Markings – and slid his palms over the strong, muscular biceps that held John over him and across his pectorals that were alight with glittering markings that didn't cease to shine as Sherlock sent his fingertips down John’s chest and smoothed down his abdomen. Each muscle flexed and clenched beneath his attention, and John pulled away from his mouth, hissing around an inhale and flattening himself down against Sherlock in retribution.

                The fire in his belly didn't ebb with this action; no, Sherlock could feel it building intensity, like a coil being tightened just before it snaps. Sherlock let out a lungful of air that came out as a pleased sigh at the sensation, and John smiled.

“You're so...” Impossibly blue eyes searched the dark haired teens face, and Sherlock felt his cheeks burn under the scrutiny. “Different. You know that?”

                John bent his leg at the knee, pushing his thigh up against Sherlock's quickly hardening cock and making Sherlock gasp and shudder. Laughter ensued this action, but not from John, from Sherlock himself. Sherlock didn't quite know what was so funny, but he did know that he was in bed with the only person he could imagine touching him. No one else seemed right in this way; only John could be so close. Only John could come to him and kiss him. Each curve of his muscles and every edge of bone was Sherlock's to keep, to cherish and to explore. The new freedom brought another vertiginous round of bubbly laughter, and Sherlock's hands escaped the trap of John's chest to clasp the sides of John's face, holding his face close while he laughed at the excited whirl of endorphins and adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream.

“Different,” Sherlock managed through a breathless bout of giggles, slipping his hands to the back of John's neck and down his sun kissed back. “I'm different. Oh,” John kissed him, and Sherlock smiled into his lips, hoping to return the smile that he'd stolen only moments ago. “Oh, John. Have you only just realized that?”

“No. I knew it the moment you walked into that house.”

                John murmured to his lips, all closed eyes and secret whispers that made Sherlock feel smothered in an emotion that he didn't know if he could handle. He felt his heart jumping up to be caught in his throat; too close, too far: too much. Sherlock strained his neck up to catch John again, to breathe in the sweet scent of his breath and finally relax into the overwhelming heat of his sunny embrace. He needed to stop his mind from roaming over the sensitive areas that controlled the urge to simply bury John in his own scent and pace him with words that were sure to keep Sherlock in control. No, that wasn't right, Sherlock assured himself; it had to be more than that. It needed to be real.

                Settling his palms against John's hips, Sherlock allowed himself to enjoy each sweep of John's lips over his, parting only enough to feel the brush of his tongue – too hot to be a normal tongue – over his lower lip. John's breath came to him in heavy gasps, and Sherlock found his own lungs reacting in tandem with him, inhaling only to have his breath forcefully taken away in a kiss. The thigh resting between Sherlock's own slid up, pushing against the hard ridge there and causing Sherlock to grunt. The sound slowly descended into the low pitch of a moan. Sherlock's eyes opened; he'd never made a sound like that before. John pulled back a bit, tilting his head to the side and smiling again, repeating the movement of his leg as if it was Sherlock’s turn to be the experiment, and John couldn't wait to see what would happen if he pushed a little harder, moved a bit faster, and kissed him for just a bit longer.

Sherlock gasped, feeling the muscles in his neck clench as molten fire threatened to boil over in the pit of his stomach. Retaliating, Sherlock shoved a hand into John's shoulder, pushing him up and away so that he could have access to him. John moved willingly, only to have a warning on the tip of his tongue, but not fast enough as Sherlock's dexterous fingers worked their way around John, and the Sentry's muscles seized up with tension.

“Sherlock, don't...!”

                It was shocking, like dipping his hand into boiling water when he expected icy liquid waiting for him. Like standing out in the cold for much too long and running inside, where the heat is too much and his skin festered and stung bitterly. He wrenched his hands away from John's cock, pressing the burning skin of his palm against John's clenched stomach and feeling the sharp inhales of breath through the movement of his diaphragm. His eyes were glued to the markings that covered John's skin, glowing a heated platinum, like a flame that had gained a few degrees in temperature.

“I should've...” John swallowed, licked his lips, and struggled to compose himself while Sherlock monitored his breathing, slowing at a disappointing rate; would he not want to be touched anymore? “I should've warned you about that, earlier.”

“What good would it have done, John?” Sherlock shrugged, flexing his sore fingers and shifting on the bed so that he could sit up fully in front of John, sharing the same air as he pushed himself into relaxation. He didn't want to stop yet; there was definitely a limit to what he could do in one night, but he didn't want to be finished quite so soon. “I would've tried it anyway.”

                John let out a humourless laugh, setting him back on the scale of calm a few notches, and making him take more deep breaths to relax all over again. He sat back on his heels, placing his fists on his knees, clenched so tight that his knuckles where stained an unbecoming shade of white. His markings still held a burning pallor, and showed no sign of changing their shade in the near future.

“You and your silly experiments. How many tries does it take to figure out that the sun is hot?”

                Sherlock leaned forward and took John's lips again, hoping to bypass the situation entirely – he didn't like it when John didn't smile – but the Sentry didn't want to be ignored, turning away after only a few seconds of their lips being locked. John looked, in Sherlock's eyes, disappointed in himself.

“John?” The Sentry turned back to him and presented a tired smile that hardly matched the excited pulse of his glowing markings. “John, can't I... am I supposed to,” Clenching his teeth, Sherlock gave out a heavy exhale that made his lungs hurt. “Maybe it's like hot bath water.”

                John lifted a sceptical eyebrow, but his hands relaxed just enough to gain their normal tanned skin tone once more.

“Hot bath water.”

“Yes.” Sherlock pushed John back, feeling the blonde grow nervous as he fell back against the bed and unfolded his legs so that he was lying upside down on the mattress. “You don't just jump into the bath water when it's hot,” He reasoned, easing himself over John so that his thigh rested between John's; he could feel the heated bulge through the thin cotton of his own trousers easily, and he moved his leg at an excruciatingly slow pace along the ridge of John's erection, drawing out a long, breathy moan that he would treasure to know that he brought on. “You go slowly to make sure you don't get burned.”

“Oh, Gods. You're horrible. Terrible.”

                Letting out a huff of laughter, Sherlock returned the attentions he was so happily delivered from John tenfold. He showering him with kisses not only to his lips, but to the markings that curved over his cheeks – which made John smile and giggle just a bit – and outlined his eyes – which made John sigh and bite his lower lip. Following the glowing path down to his neck, Sherlock rocked his pelvis forward against John's hip, feeling the heady rush of his blood flowing down to his own arousal while John sucked in a deep breath as is own body tensed.

“Sherlock.”

                He warned in a low voice that made the boiling fire in Sherlock's stomach lurch and the coil to tighten. They hadn't done anything yet; only relishing the fact that they were close, touching, balancing somewhere on the precipice of 'I'm falling for you' and 'I've fallen so far I can't see the edge anymore'. Reaching up a hand that wasn't braced on John’s hip, Sherlock fumbled blindly for John's own hand, feeling the warm fingers grip his own and fall back against the mattress as he kissed along John's neck. Lifting his head only a fraction, he could see their hands locked together and their fingers laced so tightly, Sherlock was sure that they'd never come apart.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, turning his face to see John's closed eyes and his flushed cheeks. “John, I don't want to let go.”

                Something swam through John's eyes when he opened them; in anyone else's eyes, it would've be labelled as pity, but it was strange in John's eyes. He was drowning in John, but he could breathe just fine. He was being smothered in affection, but he was overpowering the strength that John possessed as easily as kissing him. He wasn't being pitied, he was being so completely and utterly loved, he felt his chest tighten with emotions that he didn't think still existed.

“Then don’t.”

                Sherlock descended on him again, kissing him until he was sure that John could never frown again, gripping his hand until he was sure that John would never want to let go, and pressing his body so close until he was sure that they'd become one body. It was much too hot, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care; he took John's empty hand and brought it to the front of his trousers, feeling those hot fingers immediately push down underneath the fabric to cup and press against him. Glorious pressure overwhelmed him for only a moment before he reigned in on all of the sense that he had left, he let his own hand slide down slowly to wrap his already burning hand around John’s impossibly hot member. He stroked and pulled, listening as John gasped and groaned while he answered with breathy moans. These were sounds he never thought he’d make, but John was under him, using one hand to hold one of Sherlock’s and using the other to pull Sherlock toward the edge of orgasm.

While John pulled at his trousers and eventually gave a gruff order to remove them, Sherlock shimmied out of the article of clothing, letting go of John’s hand for only a moment to use his both hands in the process of pulling himself out of his trousers and pants. John said something soothing, something about not rushing into things, but Sherlock already knew he was rushing; he was running into the flames of the sun without a second thought. He was happily greeting the sting and burn of one thousand fireplaces, and gladly accepting the molten fire that was John’s kiss; Sherlock was sure that there was no better definition of ‘rushing into things’, but he didn’t give it much thought as he rolled back on top of John and watched as John’s glowing hands came up to unbutton his shirt.

Fragile strings of resilient thought found some way to linger in Sherlock’s mind as John’s hand wrapped around him once more; too many things to say and not enough time to say them. There were questions that built up behind his teeth, but he didn’t get a chance to voice them as John murmured something softly against his neck before he pressed a kiss to the skin there. John’s hands led their own exploration over his chest, scaling the mountains of his shoulders and dipping down into the valley of his shoulder blades to travel down to his lower back. John’s hands were everywhere; distracting in the most pleasant way Sherlock could imagine. Fingers in his hair travel down to his hips, to his thighs, his cock; John was working some sort of strange magic that Sherlock didn’t understand; and it was perfect.

Trying to distract himself from his own nudity, the Deity lingered on the idea of actually being pulled into the act of sexual release. Sherlock knew that his climax wouldn’t be a cliff or a crash; it would be like drowning in the most pleasurable way. Sherlock wanted to think that it would be like stepping into the bath and being overrun by the warmth and silken feeling of liquid heat surrounding him: finally relaxed and able to tell John what he really felt in the heat of it all. John was heat: the personification of the sun. Sherlock wanted to imagine that it would be as simple as all of that while he held his parted lips above John's to inhale each strand of strange curses he would never understand, listening until John could only sing his praises through breathless whispers.

“Sherlock, Sherlock...” John washed out the used up oxygen from his mouth with a heavy, peppermint exhale that made him shudder and buck into the warm, ready hand over his erection. “You perfect, perfect man... oh, Gods, Sherlock. Look at me?”

                Opening his eyes to catch John's eyes, he saw something much too real, much to raw to be true; Sherlock saw John's opalescent eyes staring down into the core of what he was, seeing a reflection of himself in his own irises and knowing that his reflection was truly imprinted on his soul. Seeing that glint in John's eye, the spark of realization that Sherlock had fallen so hard for him he couldn't catch his breath yet, set the liquid fire in Sherlock's belly over the edge, and the coil snapped.

                He was in love with John, and he hadn’t even realized it.

                It was a painful ecstasy, tearing through Sherlock to his bones as he peaked at his climax, tripping over the edge gracelessly and dragging John with him as he went. He felt his eyes screw themselves shut, and his jaw dropped around a shout – did he say John's name? – but he couldn't quite feel it. Flares of white exploded behind his eyelids wracking his body with waves of desperate pleasure, and he felt the stream of John's own burning hot seed against the palm of his hand as his frayed nerves tried to recover. Removing his hand from John’s cock – the heel of his hand was already gaining the bright red flare of a first degree burn – Sherlock let his body fall forward against John, hearing the tell-tale 'whoosh' of air from the blondes' lungs as he fell.

                He felt satisfied in a way that he never knew that he hadn’t been before; more than a dream could’ve ever sated him and more than imagination could possibly achieve. John’s breath was deep and heavy, and Sherlock squirmed down so that his ear could lie over John’s thudding heart. Even and precise, John’s foreign, fiery heart pounded out the same rhythm that he’d felt in his own chest since he was born. Sherlock reasoned that even though everyone’s hearts must beat the same, John’s and his were different, stepping up on a scale of relevance in the world until they were breathing the air from a higher place; somewhere it was just the two of them, their hearts drumming out the same tempo and conducting their own kind of symphony. Sherlock liked to imagine that it was something like that.

                His head rose and fell with John’s breath, slowing until the breaths evened out into something deeper, and more tranquil. For what seemed like a long time, neither of them spoke, keeping their locked hands together and listening to the absolute and kind sound of silence between them. Minutes passed, and Sherlock could hear the rain still pattering across the windowpane, dancing over the glass of his window and sure to cool off the fogged glass into something more manageable – and more explainable should Mrs. Hudson come knocking – whilst he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of sweat on John’s warm chest.

“John,” He whispered to the calm body beneath him, feeling hot fingers squeeze his own clammy hand in response. “Stay with me tonight?”

“Is that an order?”

                Sherlock only had to think for a moment, deciding when he heard the tension in the Sentry’s voice, and murmuring his answer in a hushed tone that only they could hear.

“No. It’s more of a request.”

                John didn’t move, opting to merely hum and brush his thumb back and forth over Sherlock’s hand, cradled preciously in his own palm while he let fatigue begin to drag him down. Feeling the sting of his right palm, Sherlock tilted his wrist so that the side of his hand just whispered against the warm flesh of John’s glowing cheek. The tender skin of his hand was met with John’s nearly unbearably hot lips, making Sherlock’s hand sting and his eyes water; the tears weren’t for his hand, but for something that he couldn’t quite name out loud. Something that he’d only experienced when he was very young, and even with his vast memory and knowledge, he couldn’t quite recall it.

“I love you.”

                He said to John’s bare chest, feeling John’s thumb stop its movement along the back of his hand for a moment. Sentiment was sticky on Sherlock’s tongue, like honey or maple syrup, but he couldn’t imagine the words coming out of his lips any other way. The movement resumed quickly, accompanied by the sound of a heavy exhale through John’s nose.

“I know.” Sherlock blinked; how could John know if Sherlock had been struggling with the idea of love the entire time? Almost four weeks spent together and over one hundred hormones raging at him, and he hadn’t realized the truth until John forced him to face the facts; how could John have possibly known? “I love you too.”

                So that was it. John knew because he understood what love was; he knew the warning signs and the hesitant gaps between physical exchanges. John knew from looking out the window of the Strange House to see other Sentries with each other. He knew from Sherlock’s mother talking about her husband with that far-off, warm hearted gaze. John knew because he must’ve known that he loved Sherlock much earlier than Sherlock had realized his own emotions. Sherlock smiled; it was the only logical reasoning that he wanted to follow.

                And with that though, Sherlock closed his eyes and let his body drag him toward the oblivion of sleep, gladly answering the call of his own body’s command for respite.

+++++

There was a smile that gleamed behind Sherlock’s eyelids as he slept; crooked and lethal, it was there and immoveable. Irreplaceable in all of the wrong ways; it was scarring. It was a disembodied smile, glinting in the murky haze of a one fog filled evening; ten streetlights; one hundred drops of blood; one thousand shots of gunfire: the smile was death incarnate. It shaped around words, cruel things that cut like knives and hateful things that made Sherlock’s chest ache; the words were spoken aloud, and easily heard, but Sherlock didn’t register the sounds.

There were gunshots. Gunshots that rang off of the brick walls of the city and shattered windows in the surrounding shops. It was late, it was dark; no one saw it. Death hung in the air, and Sherlock felt horribly out of place; as if he was real but not quite, alive but only just; physically locked in place, but only in his imagination. It had to be a dream.

While Sherlock tried to turn his head to see the three bodies that had hit the ground upon contact with the bullets, the smile loosened and turned into something ugly, something sinister: the lips parted around sharp, tacky laughter that stuck to Sherlock’s ears like wet tar but chilled him to the bone as it swept over him like slick petrol. Death incarnate, death incarnate; was there no other explanation for the thing that loomed behind Sherlock’s eyes? No real understanding of what he was seeing, and why the blood in the gutter felt as if it was staining his hands an impossible shade of red? The thing that was hiding behind Sherlock’s eyes, the thing that was visible only in the corner of his eye, ready to disappear the moment he turned to look at it head on: nightmare.

Horrifyingly real and despairingly honest, nightmares showed Sherlock what he feared most of all in the world: his inability to stop the deaths of innocent people, perhaps? No. Though that was a just cause, he was truly more afraid of not being able to find the perpetrator. He was afraid of the idea that he would never be able to solve the simple mystery of ‘who was the killer’, especially when it was obvious. It was there, pasted to the back of his eyelids when he blinked – black dress shirt, pale skin – only to have it disappear from his mind when he opened his eyes to scan the dark streets and catch his eyes on the crimson coloured fear that stuck to the edges of the kerb.

Death incarnate, nightmare, gunshots. Sherlock felt himself blink, as if he needed to while he was dreaming, and saw the smile behind his eyelids once more; sick, hollow laughter. When he opened his eyes once more, he saw the barrel of a gun pointed at his face, ready to shoot and ready to kill. Sherlock blinked again, waiting for the dream to melt away to the relief of reality, but it never did, it only led to the icy feeling of fear as he opened his eyes to the spark of a gun, and the sound of gunfire registered in his ears.

+++++

                Sherlock Holmes didn’t shout when alarmed, nor did he scream. He prided himself in being able to repress such flabbergasting reactions; he would gasp when he was surprised, and would easily go off on reasons why people shouldn’t surprise him when it happened, but he didn’t scream. He didn’t cower in corners when he was afraid of the dark as a child, he would go to Mummy and demand that she tell him that there was nothing to be afraid of, which she did, no matter how many dozens of times he would get out of bed and tell her to say it once more. Sherlock Holmes was not a screamer, and not a fearful child.

                But when he woke from his dream, Sherlock shot straight up in bed and let out a blood curdling scream that no doubt woke the entirety of England from sleep. Next to him, John was jolted awake by the sound, and was soon sitting up with his Deity, brushing his warm hands over Sherlock’s clammy skin and attempting to calm the trembling teen. His Markings shimmered an agitated bright yellow, as if the idea of Sherlock being hurt or in danger had set him on edge.

“Sherlock!” He shouted the name, causing Sherlock to blink and take a breath in; had he not stopped screaming? Sherlock couldn’t even remember. Which was strange, because he tended to remember everything of consequence, and an action such as yowling like a wounded cat in the middle of the night seemed to be of consequence. “Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong? What happened?”

                Footsteps were heard thudding down the hall, and John quickly shifted on the bed to scramble for the ring on the floor, taking it up from where Sherlock had set it before pushing it onto his finger and pulling the ignored blankets over their legs. John’s light disappeared from the room, leaving the two in the dark, causing Sherlock’s paranoia to collapse in on him and making him look around the room while he took shallow breaths; it could be here. It could be anywhere.

                The smile that sat behind his eyes and killed for no reason; the thing that had no motive and any motive it could get its hands on; the thing that wanted to have Sherlock watch the crimes and just kill Sherlock to get it over with. Sherlock swallowed and registered the fact that he was shaking; his hands and his legs shook with tremors and his teeth chattered until he clenched his jaw painfully.

“Sherlock,” John tried again as the bedroom door opened, revealing a dishevelled Mycroft and a horrified Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock stared wide-eyed at the blanket that John had thrown over them in an attempt to hide their lack of clothing, watching how the light from the hallway casted shadows over them just like the shadows that had hidden the dead bodies in his dreams. “Sherlock, what is it? A nightmare? Do you need me to do anything?”

“Oh, my.”

Mrs. Hudson said in a scandalized tone, looking at the two boys with a hand fluttering over her lips. Mycroft scowled and took three pointed steps into the room.

“Sherlock, say something.” Sherlock didn’t speak as he took deep breaths through his nose, and his eyes monitored the way John’s hands came to cover his atop the blanket. “Tell us what happened. Why were you screaming?”

                Rain fell outside, filling the quiet room with the tension filled sound of raindrops pattering lightly against the window. Sherlock sat in idle shock; how could he tell Mycroft that it was simply a dream when he didn’t know if that’s all it was? Perhaps it was some sort of twisted dream that Sherlock had created on a whim. After he had seen something so pleasantly good with John and his subconscious had decided that he needed to see something so freakishly frightening, the balance of good and bad would be restored. Or, it could have been a dream – or nightmare, for that matter – that Sherlock had made a reality without realizing it, and it was truly wandering through the cities of England, leaving a trail of nightmarish deaths in its wake.

John’s warm fingers squeezed Sherlock’s clenched fists, and the he leaned toward his Deity with a concerned expression. “Sherlock?” He tried, licking his lips and tapping his thumb on the back of Sherlock’s hand softly. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock blinked hard, seeing the familiar emptiness of nothing behind his eyelids, and sighed while he opened his eyes.

“I’m fine. It was just a nightmare,” He gave John a sideways glance. “Right, John?”

John’s brows came down into a frown, and his lips parted around a confused question, but it was never voiced as Mycroft scoffed.

“A nightmare? Sherlock,” Mycroft busied himself with retying his dressing gown more securely about himself while the black silk caught on the sallow light that streamed into the room from the hallway. “You haven’t had a nightmare for years, and you would never scream when you _did_ have them. What was really going on in here?”

“Well, I said it was a nightmare. That’s all it was.” Sherlock asserted, still watching John for reassurance while the Sentry smiled uneasily.

“And I said that I don’t believe that. Was your nightmare about your being deaf, Sherlock?”

“I said it was a nightmare. I’m fine.” Sherlock insisted, lying back down and feeling John pull the blankets to cover him completely as he went. “Go back to bed. Everything’s fine.”

Mycroft made a face as he pulled the sash of his dressing gown taut.

“Sherlock,”

“Oh, let the boys sleep, Mycroft.” Mrs. Hudson said softly, catching the three males in the room by surprise as she spoke up. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised her shoulders in a shrug while the elder Holmes turned to her with a glare. “Obviously, he doesn’t want to talk. And you,” She gave Sherlock a pointed look. “You need to tell us in the morning. If something is wrong,” Her look was moved to John, who proceeded to avert his eyes to the top of Sherlock’s hair. “You need to tell us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, we understand.” Sherlock placed a solid hand on John’s upper arm and dragged him down to lie flat on the bed with him. “Now take Mycroft and go away. Far away. Go somewhere where I’ll never have to deal with him again.”

                After Mrs. Hudson had shooed Mycroft out the door with several waves of her hands and the door to his bedroom was shut tight, Sherlock was left in the dark with John. He could feel John’s warm, bare chest beneath his fingertips, and John’s hot breath washed over his face in smooth, even bouts of peppermint scented air, but Sherlock felt fear settled deep into his bones again. It was late, it was dark; no one would see it. Just like his dream, his nightmare, his fear… Sherlock rolled John back to lay on top of him, pinning him to the mattress and soaking in all of the warmth that he could.

“John, take off the ring.” John did. Light filled the room once more, glowing just subtly enough to relax Sherlock, but not quite enough to keep him from sleeping. The Sentry beneath him was quiet and waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to tell him what was wrong, or waiting for Sherlock to tell him to put the ring on; either one could be an uncomfortable topic for each young man. When Sherlock finally spoke, it was in hushed tones. “How do I tell the difference between dreams and reality?”

The blonde brought up his hands to trail lightly over Sherlock’s shoulder blades while he sighed: pleasantly distracting. Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Well… you don’t. That’s why Danabell never had children before you.” John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The Goddess of Dreams and a Deity of Dreams; both have the power to make their dreams a reality. You might not quite understand how, but you may have already done it. I think your mother wrote about it in her diary, didn’t she? She caught an escaped nightmare that you had when you were little.”

                Sherlock felt sick to his stomach; the thing that had killed without reason and laughed at the idea of motive was _his_ creation? It was a cruel twist, a sick joke; Sherlock wished that his mother was there to tell him how to make it go away without fear. While Sherlock forced his eyes open to stare wide-eyed at the watery windowpane, John summed up the conversation with one last statement before he fell asleep, leaving Sherlock to silently fret over the fact that he created a monster.

“You can’t tell the difference between a dream and reality, Sherlock, even if you wake up. You’ll just have to close your eyes and pray that it disappears in the morning.”


	15. What nobody else Sees

“You look tired.” John noted amicably as he sat down at the table next to Sherlock. The morning light slid through the window over the sink and sank into John’s pours as he smiled empathetically at his Deity. Sherlock folded his arms on the table and buried his face in them. “Do you want me to do anything?”

“Yes. Make it so I’m not tired anymore. Do that.”

John licked his lips and smiled at Mrs. Hudson as she stirred another spoonful of sugar into Sherlock’s fresh cup of tea.

“Afraid I don’t know how to do that. Sherlock, maybe if you told me what was happening in your dreams, you wouldn’t be so,”

“I haven’t slept in thirteen days. Thirteen days, John.” Mrs. Hudson set a cup of tea in front of Sherlock, and he sat up to push it away from himself. “Normally, I wouldn’t care, but it’s beginning to affect my brains’ performance. I just feel… heavy.”

Sherlock put his head back down onto the table, as if to prove a point while John reached over a warm hand to smooth through his wild curls. Mrs. Hudson took a sip of her own morning tea quietly, murmuring something about lavender and its ability to help soothe some people to sleep. While Sherlock sulked, John listened to the landlady attentively, smiling and humming when she would leave space for response. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his mind wander as John’s heated fingers slid down to the nape of his neck and brushed at the long, curly hairs that had nested there.

He was simply too tired.

Thirteen longs nights had been spent with John, and the first seven were overflowing with heat and trembling with excitement; too many things to explore and too many things that had to be explained. John would kiss Sherlock with his sunshine warmed lips, and the brunette would close his eyes and drink in the strange all-encompassing feeling of John’s affection. Three more nights had been filled with soft exploration and sickly sweet things being uttered from John’s lips. Sherlock didn’t always know how to translate his new and shining feelings for the Sentry, and more often than not, resorted to merely restate the fact that he loved John.  Two nights had been quiet; feather light touches over skin – Deity and Sentry alike – and cautious statements about the late hour. Sherlock would let John explore, on those days; he laid back and let John’s warm fingers graze over the outlines of his skin from sweeping curves to blunt edges: uneasy bliss. The last night had been silent, with no hope of a sensual touch or light-hearted words. Both teens knew that the nightmares would interrupt their rest later in the night, and Sherlock merely resorted to tucking himself into John’s strong arms and focusing on the glow of John’s markings until sleep dragged him under.

No matter how much Sherlock wanted to pretend that it never happened, every night for the past thirteen days he had wrenched himself from sleep with gasping, heaving breaths. John had been there, cradling Sherlock’s head in his glowing hands and telling him that he was safe, no matter what happened in his dreams. Sherlock wanted to believe him, but with the murder that lingered behind his tired eyes, Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe in reality, or catch the criminal in his dreams.

“Have you tried counting sheep?”

                Mrs. Hudson said with a bright lilt in her voice, as if her suggestion was nothing less than pure gold to the boys sitting at the table. Sherlock lifted his head, only to give Mrs. Hudson a dark look through his stormy eyes, and placed his head back down atop his arms. John sighed and started to pull his fingers through Sherlock hair slowly; it was feeling that Sherlock had no problem admitting was absolutely wonderful when he was tired.

“I don’t think he’d want that, Mrs. Hudson.” John murmured to the landlady quietly, as if Sherlock was asleep at that very moment. “It’s just a bad dream. I don’t think that falling asleep is the problem, Mrs. Hudson.”

                Sherlock made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat while John’s warm hand pat the top of his head softly. There were small slivers of fatigue still stuck in Sherlock’s mind, but none of them really registered as truth as he blinked slowly. He could only see the dark navy blue blur of his shirt sleeve as his eyelashes slid against the fabric with soft, hushed noises; like a slow beat of a butterfly’s wings. It was almost soothing, but Sherlock really wanted to sleep in a bed with John; it was most comfortable that way. In his bedroom, John would remove the ring on his finger, and show his warm markings to the world. In his bedroom, John would lie back on the bed and let Sherlock bury himself in his arms, never to be released. In his bedroom, he was safe in John’s arms.

Sherlock had always been averse to sleep; it got in the way of whatever it was that he wanted to achieve while his thoughts were still racing and able to be used. However, the nightmares he had been enduring he frequently kept him from such a luxury as resting his body as well as his mind.

                All day, all night: racing thoughts with nowhere to go. He would lie down to sleep, only to be locked in his own head with nothing to do but run from a man that only existed – hopefully – in his mind. If it were any other time, he would be overjoyed to be held in his own mind; it was a safe hold for all of his logical thinking. It was a place that he could store away everything that he needed to think about, and things that needed to be done; his ultimate goal was to learn everything he possibly could about his own strength: the strength granted to him by his mother. He wanted to be able to see her again, if it were possible; but that was not noted in her diary of things that were possible to be done.

                But, there were more important things pressing at the back of his mind. Dreams that couldn’t be chased away with a knowing glance or ignorant wave; nightmares clung to the back of his eyelids, staining his thoughts a permanent shade of alarm. Words had always formed, the only words he could think of: John, help me. He could see it even as he sat his head down on his arms at the table; the black shirt that soaked up all of the night’s light, and the smile that reflected it. Death incarnate; gunshots; death in the streets. He was afraid. He could feel it even at the table, it followed him wherever he went through the Summer Estate.

                Outside in the garden when he would drag John away from his father’s old study to watch John close his eyes and smile at the feeling of occasional sunlight; he would blink, and it would be there. With Mrs. Hudson as she folded a blanket in the drawing room, telling the boys a story about Danabell Holmes; Sherlock would yawn, and it would be there. He would close his eyes, just for a moment, and be jerked awake by something. Anything. A shout of fear, a woman’s scream, a gunshot, a simple plea for mercy… laughter.

“Sherlock, sit up. You’re a despicable display of manners; didn’t Mummy teach you better?”

                Opening his eyes and sitting up quickly, Sherlock gave the kitchen table a hard look as Mycroft strutted through the kitchen; how had he not heard the pompous man come into the room? John’s hand was no longer on his neck – when had it left? – and was currently resting rather comfortably around a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson hummed a greeting while John gave Sherlock a cautious glance. Sherlock responded with a delayed blink and mumbled statement about being tired. Mycroft took the grumbled statement in his stride, pouring himself a cup of coffee and wandering languidly about the kitchen while he spoke.

“Tired? Perhaps if you were getting sleep at night, that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Mycroft!”

Mrs. Hudson gasped, holding a hand to the front of her violet blouse as if she had been personally offended. The elder Holmes rolled his eyes with a pinched expression, bringing his cup up to his lips and taking a slow drink. Sherlock watched as John licked his lips and held back the denial that was no doubt itching to escape; they hadn’t truly gotten physical for the past three days. Well, six days, if you included a few of the ones where Sherlock’s need for respite had overpowered his need to explore, resulting in a kiss that turned into rather amusing – in John’s eyes – snoring.

“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock drawled, feeling his eyes scrunch tight as he swallowed a yawn, only letting out a long exhale in his wake. “I think _you_ are the one that didn’t retain any of Mummy’s manners. Honestly; talking about such vulgar things at the breakfast table.”

                There was a pregnant silence that followed Sherlock’s words, and the dark-haired teen soon found himself feeling unusually awkward. What had he said? What had he done? Mycroft didn’t raise his cup to his lips to take another sip, in fact, he set the cup on the counter and gave his brother a long, concerned glance. Mrs. Hudson pursed her thin lips and knitted her greying eyebrows together, not saying a word. So, Sherlock looked to John with a questioning stare; it must’ve been frantic, because a curl of hair swept over his forehead and into his eyes as he turned in his head. John gave a sad, knowing kind of smile; the kind of smile he gave Sherlock when the Deity became pushy with their lessons, or said something to John that he shouldn’t have.

That smile made Sherlock feel sick to his stomach.

“Sherlock, it’s past noon.”

                Ah, the golden words that sent Sherlock’s head spinning. Why John’s hand hadn’t been on his neck, why he hadn’t heard Mycroft come into the kitchen, why the tea in front of him was gone, why the room was brighter without John’s markings to enlighten them: he had fallen asleep at the table. Feeling his eyes grow wide, Sherlock worried his lower lip, feeling it chapped and sore beneath the sharp attention of his teeth; he didn’t care. He hadn’t fallen asleep at a table since he was six years old. He could remember. Mycroft had told Mummy, and she had scolded him for falling asleep while their Father’s mother had been in attendance at the dinner; Sherlock didn’t care for his Grandmother. She and her son were very alike.

“Noon?” Sherlock said, gaining another three beats of quiet in the Holmes Estate; an odd affair for the young man. He was used to Mycroft’s boasting and preening; never his absolute silence. Even Mrs. Hudson was a chattering songbird; where had her liveliness gone? John’s lips were sealed tight until he was sure that Sherlock wanted him to speak: not out of the ordinary. “Are you sure?”

“Why would be not be sure, Sherlock?”

                Mycroft said with a haughty huff, finally taking up his cup again to swallow another mouthful. Sherlock ignored him in favour of John; the Sentry nodded twice, affirming Sherlock’s discomforts and making the young man feel worse. Sherlock was tired, so tired; and even at the table, his dreams had not been safe. He had closed his eyes for only a moment, and there was that black shirt stealing away his thoughts. There was that sickly sweet giggling that made his ears hurt and his eyes water. There was that smile; two rows of straight teeth, sharp canines and smooth white enamel. It had captured his thoughts without his notice; it concerned him.

“Whatever. John, are dreams important?”

                Mycroft made a noise akin to choking as he sat down at the table across from Sherlock and next to Mrs. Hudson, pulling his iPhone from his pocket and tapping the screen several times. John gave the older Holmes a glance before nodding attentively; Sherlock nodded once in return. John needed to pay attention, and not worry about his idiotic brother running the bloody country.

“Good. Fine.” Mrs. Hudson shuffled away from her seat and asked Sherlock if he wanted a cup of tea while he gave her a dismissive wave.  “Milk. I’d like milk. John, is there no way that we can… how can I put this in a way that you’ll understand…” John made a face and Sherlock felt his lips twitch into an almost smile. “Is there any way that I can _not_ dream?”

Mycroft set down his phone on the table “What are you going on about?”

Sherlock ignored him, giving John a long look. “John. Can I find a way so that I don’t dream?”

“Is it… Sherlock, you can’t just deny something you were meant to do. Is it really that bad?”

                A frustrated noise came out of Sherlock’s throat, and he couldn’t find it in himself to bed surprised by it; he was just too tired. Mycroft sat back in his chair while Sherlock shifted forward, leaning over the table and raking his fingers through his hair as if he could somehow weed out the tired black shirt and worn out laughter. There was a ceramic clink that resonated through the stagnant air in the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson set a glass of milk in front of Sherlock, only to have the teen push the cup away with a sickened glare. He was too tired. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t in the mood for seeing John’s sweeter dreams, and he didn’t want to acknowledge the prying glint in Mycroft’s eyes. He wanted wrap himself in John’s embrace and simply _sleep_.

“Not thirsty, dear?”

                Mrs. Hudson hummed as she placed a kind hand on Sherlock’s shoulder; an attempt at sheltering the young man from whatever was threatening to crush him beneath the weight of one thousand broken dreams. Sherlock avoided Mycroft’s stare as he shook his head in a tired manner, taking up John’s hand and simply standing up.

“No, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not…” Sherlock sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. John’s fingers squeezed his empathetically. “Not thirsty, or hungry. Just tired.” He gave John a look that was sure to convey his feelings, seeing the wince in John’s expression when he caught sight of the bags under Sherlock’s eyes.  “I’m just tired.”

                They retreated to Sherlock’s room eight times that day.

                There were moments of complete clarity in the room; beautiful moments of nothing but the heavy sound of John’s heart beneath Sherlock’s ear, and the gentle, easy pull of John’s fingers pulling lazily through Sherlock’s dark hair. Those moments were dyed a happy colour, and Sherlock found himself wishing that the colour was permanent hue, for every time he would close his eyes – only for a moment it would seem – he would be ripped away from sleep with trembling hands and a sob on his lips.

                For the longest time, Sherlock was sure that he didn’t cry when he was frightened. Entire years, gaps in his life, were filled with the reassurance that he would only cry when he thought of Mummy’s leaving. These thoughts were banished twelve nights ago when Sherlock had woken up with salty tears making hasty tracks down his flushed cheeks while he gasped for air. John had been there, brushing his fingers over those rose tinted cheeks and whispering to those trembling lips; he had never once been afraid. He was an anchor to reality that Sherlock desperately craved.

                There were also moments of complete disarray in the room; shattered, frightened moments that Sherlock hated to live in the most. The rush of air through his lungs as he tore himself from the claws of sleep with a strangled, horrified breath The frantic searching for John’s presence for the reassurance that he was in fact awake. The occasional damp heat of tears on his cheeks until John sat up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled the Holmes in close.

He kissed Sherlock’s hair, his cheeks, and the damp skin beneath his eyes where trails of tears threatened to make a reappearance, whispering sweet words of comfort as a warm Sentry only could. Cupping his Deity’s face in his palms, John pressed another kiss to his forehead, feeling Sherlock’s tremors calm slightly as the chattering of his teeth became less noticeable, as if he was forgetting that he had been cold.

“It’s alright,” He murmured, allowing Sherlock to turn his head down to the recess of space between his neck and shoulder, burying himself there and forcing himself to accept the fact that he was truly awake. “It’s okay, Sherlock. I’m here.”

                Seven times Sherlock woke up. Seven times John calmed his fears. Gentle hands through his hair, over his cheeks and down his arms. Soft kisses were delivered to his lips when he wanted them, and soothing words were spoken when he asked for them.

 Seven times they wandered to the kitchen to get a calming cuppa. Seven times Mycroft was waiting for them. Mrs. Hudson was there in her violet blouse, looking over Sherlock in a soft, motherly kind of way that made Sherlock nervous, and Mycroft always questioned when they were doing every time they went back to Sherlock’s room. Not that he really wanted to know.

                Eight times they wandered back to Sherlock’s bedroom, and on that eighth time, Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to stay awake as John murmured something about the sun setting.

                Hours wore on, and Sherlock slept, dreamt, heard the gunshots, listened to the laughter, and felt his throat catch around every breath; death incarnate. No escape.

Sherlock sat up for the eighth time that day, and screamed for John.


	16. A criminal by proxy

"John."

Sherlock said quietly, turning over the pages in his mother's diary slowly as he spoke. His lips moved around John's name in an almost melancholic manner that late morning; sleepless nights hung down heavily on the two of them, leaving behind an increasing sense of uneasiness. With the increasing number of deaths in Sherlock's dreams, the discovery of the morning newspaper was shocking to say the least.

John had looked over it simply by chance, merely happening to sit down at the table as Mycroft stood up, leaving the wavy folds of paper behind. He had asked if it was alright for him to look -- Sherlock's mother had taught him to read, little by little -- and Mrs. Hudson twittered away at how good it was for John to want to practice his worn out reading skill. With John busying himself with the paper and Mrs. Hudson pulling a fresh batch of scones from the oven, Sherlock had resorted to leaning over and placing his head on John's shoulder in preparation for thinking about the long string of theories behind his nightmares.

And there it was. Written in black and white in front of him as John stared at the paper in confusion; he'd never seen the words 'Multiple Homicide' and 'Authorities Baffled' use together in bold print at the head of a document. There it was.

The sights of his nightmares in small pictures of blood stained kerbs and bricks walls peppered with holes: gunshots, death incarnate, and laughter. It was real.

Sherlock had torn the paper from John's lax grip to look over the number of murders, marching up several places with recollections in his head and feeling slightly sin at the sight of: Culprit is still At Large.

It was horrible; beyond undesirable. It was unthinkable to be the killer, and yet, there Sherlock's was every night, watching over the murders like some sort of consultant. So that was what he really was, now.

A criminal by proxy: A consulting criminal.

He was a Dream Deity trapped into being a murderous teenager; how had it happened? How had he created such a monster in his dreams, and how did it come to life? Did he even possess enough strength to bring such a thin to life? Did he have enough to destroy it?

His mother had written many things about the act of 'banishing' escaped dreams, but never elaborated. Throwing the paper down onto the paper, Sherlock had ignored Mrs. Hudson's barrage of questions in favour of taking John's hand and pulling him from the kitchen.

They had trudged to Sherlock's room in silence; John hadn't asked any questions about Sherlock's dreams after the Deity had snapped at him about the interrogation. Leaving John I. The doorway, Sherlock reached under the mattress and snatched his mother's diary before grasping John's warm hand and tugging him all the way out the front doors and around the outside of the house and into the safety of the garden.

Now they sat on wiry chairs of melded copper and iron. Sherlock sat looking at his mother's diary, once, twice, three times before he realized that she never wrote down how to banish a dream. John looked at the small garden, idly admiring small rows of ferns and the broad leaves of hostas that were bunched together in small clusters.

"John." Sherlock said again, bringing the Sentry's attention from the flowers and back to his solemn stare. "John, I don't know how it happened, and that frustrates me. I want to know how everything works, and this..." He gestured to his mother's diary with a sour expression. "This is no help to me. How could this happen?"

John sat quietly, worrying his lower lip and regarding the diary with a mildly irritated expression. He looked as if he was holding back words that he desperately wanted to voice, and no doubt they were words that wouldn't answer Sherlock's question. So he sat. He didn't speak, and he didn't shift in his seat. The late summer wind moved around them slowly, as if it were in no hurry to push stale oxygen away from them.

The two sat in an unsociable silence, each one waiting for the other to break it while the clouds over their heads gathered together in preparation to drop heavy layers of rain on their sunny day. The Summer Estate had never seemed so vast to Sherlock; the freshly cut grass gave off its crisp aroma while the trees swayed in an odd repartition of dance. If he was more sentimental, he would say that the lawn seemed to stretch on forever, mapping out the space between humans and Gods with each meter of grass and each breath of air. If he were not so focused on the Sentry sitting before him, he might've noticed the shapes that hovered protectively between the branches and over the small clusters of leaves below the trees; watching over him, just as they were ordered by their Goddess.

John chose to lean forward at that moment, placing a hand over the cover of the diary and looking at Sherlock with a stare that held more frustration than Mycroft's glare when Sherlock would set something on fire out of sheer boredom.

"I can't tell you anything," John said lowly, causing Sherlock to lean forward to catch his words. "Because you haven't told me anything."

                The Deity work his jaw, turning his face away from John’s and choosing to look at the smooth lines of flowers that Mrs. Hudson had no doubt planted in the garden. He felt trapped; more trapped than he had felt when he was stuck in his head with his nightmare. He was drowned in emotions that he’d rather not experience while speaking to John: anger, discomfort, anxiety. So much anxiety. It was surely unhealthy to be so worried about not telling John something that he’d wanted to keep to himself.

                What he really wanted to do was understand how to stop the nightmare from damaging reality further than it already had. It was a heavy feeling; a feeling that weighed down on Sherlock’s shoulders and made him want to bury himself down under the canopy leaves of the hostas. John leaned back in his chair, giving the dark haired teen a long look before actually parting his lips around another pile of speech.

“You haven’t been talking to me.” John nodded to himself, as if agreeing with what he’d just said while he tapped his jean clothed thigh lightly. “Which is fine. Honestly. Fine. Not like I care about you wanting quiet every now and then, it’s just the fact that,” The blonde took in a deep breath and Sherlock gave him a careful glance. “You’ve been having these dreams for… quite some time. Not that having the dreams is an issue, but if you think that the things in the paper have anything to do with what’s going on in your dreams, then we should,”

“John.” Sherlock said lowly, staring at the neatly aligned trees at the edge of the yard.

“Hold on, let me finish. I think we should definitely do something about it. If you just tell me what happening, maybe I could help. If it’s an escaped,”

“John.”

Sherlock said again, brushing a curl of dark hair from his eyes as a breeze ruffled the air around them slowly. He had seen something move in the trees; several different interpretations of ‘something’. Small and big, quick and slow; in the branches, in the underbrush, in the line of the trees. Sherlock could see his mother’s Sentries.

John blinked at his Deity as he halted his words, giving the scowling teen a concerned look before he followed Sherlock’s gaze to the forest.

“What?”

“Stop talking.”

                John made a face as Sherlock pushed back his metal framed chair and stood up, eager to move toward the forest. He had to see the Sentries. They might know what to do in the case of an escaped dream. Moreover, they might be able to tell Sherlock more about his mother than the diary or even John knew.

“John, are the Sentries in the forest my mother’s?”

The blonde glanced at the trees. “They should be.”

“Why would they still be here?”

John’s gaze moved to the cobblestone under their shoes. “I… honestly, I don’t know. Maybe she gave them an order to stay, like me. Or maybe they just didn’t want to leave.” Sherlock gave John a sparing glance, and the Sentry shrugged loosely. “Really, I can’t speak for them.”

Sherlock smiled at John, and looked back at the forest once more before turning back to John.

“Can I go see them?”

“I think you’ve got this backwards.” John smiled with Sherlock, giving him a pat on the arm. “You are the Deity, and I am the Sentry. You don’t have to ask _me_ for permission.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow while John hesitated. “Well, unless it’s dangerous; and I would know if it was dangerous. Then, I would have a thing or two to say.”

“Fine. Then I’m going to see them.”

                Sherlock said with a nod, stepping between the hostas and minding the small flowers around them as he sought out the forest and the Sentries hidden inside of it. John scurried along behind him, moving past the small garden and trotting along with Sherlock’s longer strides as the Deity advanced on the forest front. For the first time in thirteen days, he felt as if he was going to stumble on a revelation; he wouldn’t have to tell anyone the things he had seen, and he wouldn’t have to see John’s disappointment at his lack of strength in his dreams. It was what he’d be hoping for, all bundled up in a nice package.

“I need to talk to one of you.”

Sherlock said loudly as he came to a stop at the edge of the trees. His shoes slipped against the cut blades of grass, and his breath echoed hotly in the humid air around him as he waited. The forest was still; unmoving and unresponsive. Next to him, John was quiet and vigilant, watching his Deity with cautious opalescent eyes. As long seconds turned into minutes, Sherlock took a deep breath and pushed his hands into his trousers pockets.

“It only needs to be one.”

                He said, as if to solidify the fact that he wasn’t asking for every one of the Sentries to wander out of the forest to speak with him. John shifted where he stood almost uncomfortably as Sherlock glared at the trees; nothing was happening. There was no shape that was human, human or otherwise, that was moving in the forest. Only the subtle sound of John and his breathing was enough to tell Sherlock that time was passing. Time that his nightmare could potentially be using to kill random people for sport.

“I only need one Sentry, and that’s all.” Sherlock said solidly, taking a half-step forward and looking forward into the forest. Nothing happened. John stayed where he was, letting his Deity voice what he wanted and not bothering to get in the way. “Just one.” Several minutes had already passed when Sherlock gave one last desperate attempt. “Please. Just one.” He took a shuddering breath – shaking with frustration or anxiety, he couldn’t tell – while John bit his lower lip. “Please.”

“Why?” Sherlock glanced to his wright to see a tan-skinned girl leaning languidly against a nearby tree. Her hair was a dull russet colour, tied back in a messy bun and easily letting several strands fall into her eyes. “Wha’ do you need from us?” Sherlock blinked in surprise as she continued. "You’re no’ hurt, you’re no’ in any danger. So, wha’ could you wan’?”

                Wincing at the heavy accent that tainted the girls’ words, Sherlock licked his lips and thought about what she had said. John hadn’t ever been so disrespectful. He could be temperamental and quiet, and more often than not, he was hard to understand; but his intentions were mainly good. It was just a matter of personality, Sherlock assured himself as he said what he wanted.

“You knew my mother.” The girl nodded. “You were her Sentry.” Another nod. “Then, you must have known her method of doing things. You must have seen her work,” Sherlock searched for the correct words with a wild flourish of his hands. “You must have seen her create dreams, or make them a reality, right?”

The girl nodded again, pushing a long, dirty lock of red hair from her eyes as she did.

“Aye. I did, sir.”

Sherlock’s curiosity sparked. “For how long? How long did you know her?”

The Sentry took a deep breath and looked up to the sky, as if the topic of conversation needed to be thought over carefully. She stepped away from the shade of the trees, allowing the partially covered light of the sun to hit her skin and show off her black Markings. They were sharp, like jagged thorns all long her arms and scattered along her hairline, hidden under the folds of dirty brown clothes that hadn’t been cleaned for a relevant amount of time. Now that Sherlock could accurately look her over, he could see that her skin wasn’t tanned at all; it was dusted over with dirt and fine splotches of mud. The teen could see that she truly had fare coloured skin under all of the grime, as shown around her eyes, where no dirt had dared to be strewn.

“A good… ten years, I’d say.” She said fairly slowly. It was as if her words were mad of molasses and she had to take her time to say them. “Good woman, you’re mother. Ne’er took any shit from the Gods, if you know wha’ I mean. My kind a’ woman.”

Sherlock’s thought process paused on the way to his nightmare; ten years? Before he was born, before his parents were even married, she’d known this Sentry. Sherlock took a step toward her, eager to ask all that he could and learn as much as he could handle.

“Ten years?” His thoughts raced as he went over everything he’d ever wanted to know about his mother after she’d left. “New question. Why did she marry my father?”

                The woman in front of him blinked slowly; like a cow that was chewing curd, taking its time to break down every bit of starch before swallowing. She pursed her lips, as if she was about to say something, but decided against it, pivoting her weight from her right foot to her left. John was waiting quietly to be acknowledged, to be needed, to be wanted; he had been waiting for years before Sherlock had come to the Strange House, and he knew that he could handle a few more minutes of being ignored. If Sherlock was content with the information he gained from the exchange, John was happy to sit back and let the conversation follow through.

                Before the woman had any chance to let her syrup thick words flow slowly from her mouth, another Sentry stepped out from behind a tree to the left. He was tall, Sherlock could see; with broad shoulders and strong arms, the man seemed to be a formidable force. He crossed his arms over his chest, showing off his own brand of inky black Markings.

“He said he loved her.” The male Sentry said hollowly, as if the subject was the most unpleasant one he’d ever had to speak about in his life. “I think that’s all she needed to her. Your mum was… a simple woman. She didn’t need much.”

“What?” Sherlock baulked, looking franticly – if not angrily – from the stranger to John. “Why?”

John raised his hands tentatively, as if to stop Sherlock from doing something preposterous.

“Sherlock,”

“Quiet.” He snapped in John’s direction. “Why would she only need to hear that? My mother was _brilliant_ , she was a _genius_!” The large Sentry didn’t flinch at Sherlock’s sharp tone, and merely raised his chin when Sherlock finished his thoughts. “Why would she marry _him_? He’s a liar, a coward, and an idiot. She couldn’t have possibly,”

“Sherlock, just,”

“Shut up, John!” Sherlock barked at him, watching the blonde duck his head and stare disagreeably at the freshly cut grass. The Deity winced at his own use of words, and stepped toward John to take his warm hand in his own. “I’m… I just want to know. Why would she marry a man that said he loved her? Did she really love him?”

“Of course she did.” The female Sentry said, scratching at her dirty scalp while John squeezed Sherlock’s fingers. “He was a charmer. Your mum said so. All the time.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So she married my father because he was charming?”

The tall Sentry sighed and shook his head, leaning back against the tree he had stepped out from behind easily. He was uncomfortable with the storytelling; it was obvious in the way this his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched at the mention of Sherlock’s father. The woman shrugged loosely and proceeded to flop to the ground, sitting at the base of a tree and yanking her fingers through her knotted flaming hair.

“I think it was more of the fact that he was charming toward _her_ , more than just being charming.” Sherlock glanced up at a girl who stood between the other Sentries; her Markings were a pale blue, just like the Ventus Sentries he had seen in the market with John. She nodded to herself, as if agreeing with the statement while she stood uneasily in front of the young Deity. “I mean, think about it. She’s the Goddess of Dreams; in charge of brining dreams _as well_ as nightmares.” The Vetnus Sentry shrugged loosely and motioned to Sherlock as if she really wanted his opinion on the matter. “Would you fall in love with a woman who brought fear in the night? The woman who balances out the sweetest dreams with sick horrors? I don’t know many who would.”

Sherlock huffed and holding onto John’s hand loosely as he spoke. Hearing about it like that, it sounded as if his mother was truly a force to be reckoned with, rather than the gentle spirit he’d known her to be when he was young. She illuminated fears, brought on paranoia, and kept people awake for centuries with nightmares. It seemed so unlike the woman he’d known as a child.

“Why would she give out nightmares?”

“Because that’s who she is.” The tall Sentry said loudly, as if it were an obvious fact. He leaned forward, as if he was going to shake some sense into Sherlock, but thought against it, choosing to lean back again as he spoke. “She is the Goddess of Dreams; be it good, or bad. Nightmares are given as signals of what to be aware of or what to embrace. Your mother knew that better than anyone.”

Sherlock shook his head, trying to rid it of useless information.

“So she married a random man because he loved her… in spite of who she is. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Some girls just wan’ to be loved, handsome.” The red hair Sentry muttered from her spot at the base of the tree, having gone back to pulling her fingers through her tangled hair. “Your mum just happened to be one of ‘em. She didn’t need no better reason.”

                The three strange Sentries grumbled their agreement with the statement, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought of his mother being so dim. She was a brilliant woman; she taught Sherlock to look at every aspect of the room, register sounds from far away in his mind, and to remember everything he could about what he experienced in everyday life. She taught him to be one of the brightest minds in his school, and here he was, being told that she was a love sick young woman who swooned at the promise of courtship.

                It was embarrassing. His mother was not that kind of woman; or was she? Sherlock let go of John’s hand to push his fingers through his hair, mussing it and leaving his thoughts thoroughly scattered. What had he really wanted to talk about, besides his mother’s strange, undying love for her moron of a husband? Her stupid, cheating, undignified excuse of a husband. Sherlock squinted at the red haired Sentry as she pinched her thumb and forefinger together in the air, resulting in a small anthill at her feet. What had he come to them to say?

“You, all of you, you’ve seen her do it. You’ve seen her create dreams.” Sherlock said breathlessly, feeling John place a warm hand on his shoulder while he continued. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”

The Ventus Sentry bobbed her head in a nod enthusiastically, taking a step forward and gladly proclaiming that she was one of the first Sentries to be Claimed by Danabell. Sherlock gave her an appraising look, licking his lips and voicing the request that he hoped would save him – and possible countless others – from his nightmare.

“Then, you must’ve seen her get rid of dreams that she made into a reality.” Sherlock took another breath, and John’s hand on his shoulder gripped tightly, as if to push him forward. “I need you to tell me everything you know about purging those dreams.”


	17. Trial by Fire and Ice

                Sherlock sat down on the grass, feeling more than a bit light headed after the Ventus Sentry told him the truth. There was no way to reverse what he’d done. He was stuck with the overwhelming knowledge that he was the true cause of several deaths. He was the reason that there was a murderer on the loose and the reason that they couldn’t be tracked down or hunted. Sherlock was trapped in his mind. Over and over, he could feel those thoughts of the nightmare man’s dark shirt and light laughter overtaking every moment, every move, every breath… that man was there, locked away and yet free as reality, tainting the true world a sickly shade of deceit. It was there, encircling him and leaving him no escape. He could hear it, shouting, snickering, and breathing down his neck.

                The nightmare was always there now. It lurked even when he tried to escape from it with John, trying to use John’s warm light to keep him awake. Even if Sherlock struggled to stay awake, he couldn’t evade sleep forever. If it was impossible for every other man, it was impossible for him. Whether Sherlock liked it or not, it was soothing to know John was there, ready to fight for him, ready to protect him, and ready to keep him safe. Much too soothing.

After too many long hours without respite, caution would be thrown to the wind, and Sherlock would let his eyes flutter shut. John’s breathing was a lullaby, and his arms were the only comfort that the Deity could ever wish for. Sherlock would sleep, and the nightmare man would be there. _He_ would be there. There was no way to escape him, and now Sherlock sat on the ground, feeling something that he’d never truly felt before: defeat.

John knelt down behind Sherlock, settling his warm hands on the teen’s shoulders and giving him a comforting squeeze.

“Sherlock, I’m sure that if you just --”

“What?” Sherlock huffed breathlessly, feeling his wide eyes blink slowly. “If I just… what, John? If I close my eyes and hope, it’ll go away? If I tell it to just disappear, it will just _disappear_?” He gave a humourless laugh, and John pat his shoulders nervously. “I don’t know if that’s how it works, John.”

                Once, Sherlock’s life had been so predictable. Boring. More than once, he was left on his own with the simple mission of finding his own adventure. It was always so boring, so typical, so… _tedious_. Now, he sat in front of strangers with John patting his shoulders. No ordinary strangers, Sherlock thought to himself. These strangers were magical. With their spinning Markings that sat like tattoos on their arms, and their hidden abilities to twist nature to their will. Life wasn’t simple anymore. Sherlock wasn’t going through his days with ignorable people and boring tasks; he was living some sort of bedtime story reality where nothing was ignorable.

                There were things to be seen that no one else in the world would be able to accomplish even in their wildest dreams. The tedium had vanished. It had been swept away with John’s sweet, sunshine-filled smile, and a new life that was completely out of the ordinary was set in front of him like a change in course. Steered away from normality and into the depths of something that Sherlock wanted to explore to no end, Sherlock was living proof that magic existed. It was something that he never would have accepted before, and now here he was, in front of four magical, fantastical beings. One of which he was in love with. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to be distracted by sentimental.

                Sherlock knew from a young age that he wanted to solve puzzles and riddles, and being a detective would have its fair share of puzzles. But, there wasn’t any fun in that. Why not pick and choose the cases he wanted? He was a genius, and his brilliance was fit for only the most interesting cases that could be found. A consulting detective then. Brought onto a case when no one else could so the puzzle or riddle, he would be the only smart person in a sea of idiots. He wouldn’t have time for nonsense, tomfoolery, or simple cases. Sherlock liked that I idea. And yet, he couldn’t fight the fact that his plans had changed. Life had strayed far from its original course.

So, there he stayed, with his only love and three profoundly magical strangers in front of him, waiting for him to do something. It was only logical for the Sentries to expect something of him because he was the Deity, but there was one dilemma that he couldn’t ignore. Sherlock realized that there had been a fatal flaw in their design.

It was a flaw that any normal person could see. A flaw that not even he chose to acknowledge: he never really knew what he was doing. Breathing? Thinking? These were things he had done in the past. He had only been hypothesizing and taking down mental notes on the unknown, pushing limits he hadn’t recognized and never really thought were real. But he had seen John’s dreams, crisp and clear in his own mind as if he had dreamed them himself. He had seen many things, but he never knew how he saw them. There was no science or logic behind it, and now he was trapped in the uncomfortable fact that he was undoubtedly caught between his nightmare and a hard place.

He didn’t know how it came to life and he didn’t know how to kill it. It was an undistinguishable flame, a raging hurricane that never ran out of strength, and a tornado that never felt the need to disperse. Sherlock knew that he had to stop whatever it was – or, whoever it was – that was terrorizing the inhabitants of London, but what could he do? What is a creation to a creator that doesn’t understand it? And what is a criminal to a detective when the detective has no hopes of ever catching them?

“You know,” the fiery headed girl crawled forward across the grass until she was stationed in front of Sherlock with a frown. “You could always wai’ for ‘im to come to you. You said it was a man, yeah? Jus’ wai’.”

“Wait?” Sherlock said breathlessly, squinting indignantly at the dirt-covered Sentry. “Wait for the man that holds a gun to my face every night? I see.” He leaned back against John and felt warm arms immediately embrace his shoulders, wrapping around his neck like a loose scarf. “You want me to wait. How precious. So, while my nightmare slaughters people, you want me to sit on my hands and wait for death to come knocking at my door. That’s rich. Really, brilliant.”

                The girl raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips as if the entire conversation was a waste of time; in all truth, it _was_ a waste of time. Sherlock could have been… what? What could he have been doing, if not asking for assistance? There was nothing else. No clue left in the diary, no evidence left in the Summer Estate, and nothing besides sparsely placed furniture in the Strange House. What should he be doing, if not trying to fix what he’d so badly broken? He had shattered some sort of thin line between fantasy and reality more than once – sharing his bed with John, seeing John’s dreams, seeing his own nightmare – it was all lined up, waiting to be judged while he struggled with the decision of “what to do next.”

                The other strange Sentries stood at uneasy attention,  and the red haired girl brought up a hand to shield her eyes as she tipped her head back to look at the sky.

“I’m jus’ thinkin’,” she said blandly, idly running her tongue over her teeth while Sherlock turned a sharp glare on her. After she’d given the sky a good long look, she lowered her gaze back to the young Deity and narrowed her eyes. “Or, do you have a be’er idea?”

                Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ , that might give them the impression that he knew what he was doing. He parted his lips around some reply that might save him from the oncoming guilt and frustration of causing dozens of deaths. His tongue was ready to spill so many different reasons for his misuse of dreams, but none came. No words fell from his mouth, and judging by the blunt look of pity on the red haired Sentry’s face, she hadn’t been expecting him to say anything.

“You don’t have to try to do anything, Sherlock.” John whispered lowly behind him, sounding almost depressed as he spoke. “It’s just a dream. It can’t hurt you.”

                Feeling his eyes grow wide once more, Sherlock stood up quickly, turning around and watching as John fell back onto the grass without him to be an anchor. A normal dream was one thing, but this was a nightmare. A nightmare that had become a reality. A nightmare that made him feel emotions that Sherlock was sure he’d stored away when he was very young: fear, anxiety, paranoia. These things were real now: lingering in the back of his mind, played out as subtext every moment he closed his eyes, overcoming every feeling until there was no rationality left…

“Just a dream? John, this is more than a dream. It’s… it’s a living thing! It’s killing people; it can’t be caught. It has no motive. It’s the perfect murderer, John. And I made it!” Sherlock gestured to himself frantically, watching as John’s normally smiling lips were stained a seemingly permanent shade of disappointment. While the Sentries around them exchanged nervous glances, taking a step back from the Deity as a precaution, Sherlock continued, pacing across the grass and growling out his frustrations. “I can’t think with this… this _thing_ running about, causing all of these deaths, waking me up in the middle of the night. It’s too much, and I don’t have enough time to sort it out!”

John looked to the sky with a shaky breath. “Sherlock --”

“No, John! You can’t stop me this time. I don’t want to hear any more, do you understand? You don’t know what this is like!” Sherlock stepped toward John, holding his own head and pulling on his curls until he was sure the hair would be ripped from his scalp. “My thoughts are in ruins! He’s destroying everything, and I can’t do anything!” John blinked rapidly, reaching up his hands to somehow relieve the pain until Sherlock turned away from him. “You don’t understand. I can’t just ignore this. I can’t ignore the things I see when I close my eyes, John. He’s always there! Blood on the pavement, gunshots… it’s all there! You don’t hear the _screams_ at night John. You don’t have to listen to them, over and over until you feel like you’re going insane.”

John swallowed nervously and looked to the Sentries behind the curly haired teen for some kind of assistance, only to see that they’d averted their eyes to the ground. Sherlock went on, grasping the front of John’s shirt and pulling him forward until he stood on the tips of his toes in front of the desperate Deity. John’s blue eyes were wide with surprise; he’d never seen Sherlock so _afraid_ of something. Sherlock was almost always selfish and blunt – always difficult to understand – but his intentions were to ultimately meet a logical goal or standard. Now, there was no goal, there was no standard, and there was no logic at their disposal. Fear was a fine veil over everything, leaving the Sol Sentry to witness ultimate destruction of Sherlock Holmes, starting with his sanity.

“You don’t hear it, John. It doesn’t echo in your mind, and you don’t see those faces.” Sherlock’s expression twisted into a grimace while John stood in front of him with a visage that screamed for some sort of respite. “The faces… you don’t watch them die, John. _But I do_. I see everything! From the gunshot and knives to the poison and rope; I see it. _All_ of it! I can’t escape this until I get rid of that nightmare, and you telling me that the dream can’t hurt me doesn’t help. These little platitudes you’re offering don’t help, John! Even if you say those things, it doesn’t stop those screams from echoing in my mind every hour, every minute,” Sherlock took a breath and realized just how desperate he sounded, and how terrified John looked. Sherlock blinked. “Every second.”

                John’s hands were steady as he placed them on Sherlock’s shoulders, holding the Deity in place while he gave him a hard look. There was sense in him yet, John was sure. He just wasn’t certain that Sherlock would listen to him, especially when John could only tell him the unhelpful truth.

“It’s a dream, Sherlock. You need to --”

“John.” Sherlock cut him off once more, letting go of John’s shirt and looking up at the sky that the red haired Sentry had admired only moments before. “John, what is that?”

                When John turned around to see what had caught the Deity’s attention, he was greeted with the sight of a sky that was filled with coal and trembled with fire. It was unexpected and uncalled for: the sight of the sky being purged of light and the clouds being filled with ash. A solar eclipse? Sherlock watched with his lips parted in eternal awe and confusion; it would have been discussed at the table by Mrs. Hudson if such a thing had been forecasted.

                He took John’s hand and pulled him forward to look at a sky that was bending beneath the weight of one thousand solar eclipses. It was unreal to the extreme, but there all the same. He couldn’t quite tell: dream, or reality? When he turned around to ask the other Sentries what they thought of the sight, he was met with the empty forest front that was void of any other Sentry besides John.

                As if in a dream, things around him weren’t quite making sense. But he was there, he could feel things in a way he never could when a nightmare struck him in the dead of night. He could feel the reality of the wind against his cheeks, he could hear the distinct sound of John’s breath, and he could almost taste the stale tang of milk from the mornings’ breakfast on his teeth.

                If it wasn’t a dream, then it had to be a reality; but, if it was reality, where had the other Sentries gone, and why was there a solar eclipse? Sherlock scowled and turned back to face John, taking in his distraught expression. He didn’t like not knowing things. With a hard blink, he tried to think on what was occurring to somehow manage a logical reasoning for the occurrence, but there was no such answer locked away in his Mind Palace. He didn’t care about outer space, so there was nothing stored away for future reference in his brain. What could he do besides wonder what was happening to the word around him?

It was like watching the world crumble beneath his feet. Was this was the people of Italy experienced in Pompeii so long ago? The sky turning into dark clouds of ash, and the ones that you know falling away into nothingness… it seemed like a skewed view on reality. Like looking through a carnival glass and seeing the real shapes and lines of reality contorted into strange alien shapes of ominous scenery and dark skies.

After he gave the sky one last considering glance, Sherlock turned his eyes to John, monitoring the way the Sentry looked back and forth agitatedly, as if he was waiting for something to jump out at them. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, feeling his face scrunch up in confusion as John fidgeted nervously. Was there something happening around them that Sherlock couldn’t understand, or was John just on edge because of the other Sentries disappearing?

“John, what’s going on?”

                The blonde’s snapped back to attention, righting his slightly defensive stature and gluing his gaze to Sherlock’s. With a careful eye, Sherlock could still easily see the uneasiness in the shorter man’s frame, and it wasn’t difficult to discern the signals of fight of flight in John’s fisted hands and steady eyes.

“I don’t know.” John said slowly. He licked his lips and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder for an unknown thing before meeting Sherlock’s stare again. “I honestly don’t know.”

                When Sherlock opened his mouth to respond with something sharp-witted, he felt the air around him thin out. It was as if winter had come a few months early and brought the bitter air with it, burning Sherlock’s throat when he took a breath and fracturing the blood vessels in his lungs when he tried to exhale. The result was a choking gasp and a steamy exhale, as if Sherlock had deposited some sort of acidic compound deep in his chest, and breathing was some sort of fumigating technique. John’s eyes went wide, and he stepped forward with his hands outstretched while Sherlock held a hand to his chest and struggled to inhale the stinging air.

“Sherlock,” John’s hands brushed over Sherlock’s forehead, moving aside his thick curls to get a good look at his eyes: wide with surprise as he choked on frozen air. “Sherlock, tell me… tell me what hurts, and I’ll… I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it, I swear to the Gods. Sherlock, please.”

                Sherlock was sure he was dying. Years of researching the human body and all of its components had given Sherlock insight into what would occur if he were to be dying. His throat could swell, his organs could fail, his brain could cease to function, and he would know exactly why it was happening. But whatever was happening to him had nothing to do with the human limits of nature; this was something Sherlock could only understand in his new life.

                The air was frozen, getting caught in his throat with each surprised gasp, only to be too cold to hold in his lungs for too long. It was as if Sherlock’s very lungs were freezing in brumal air, and he couldn’t quite recover from whatever shock had its grip on him. John mumbled questions as his warm hands swept along his cheeks and over his ears, but Sherlock couldn’t find the strength to answer, only blinking rapidly as he gasped around every shocking breath.

“Trial by freezing… or trial by fire, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to the left, seeing the man who had infiltrated his dreams for two long weeks. The nightmare man had found him, just as the red-haired sentry had predicted. The man that stood tall among the falling bodies in Sherlock’s dreams stood waiting in the freshly cut grass of the Summer Estate. With his black shirt and pale skin, he was everything Sherlock remembered from his nightmares. There was that light shadow of sleep deprivation beneath his dark eyes and madness linger in his sly smile. With his hands in his trouser pockets and a loose posture, the nightmare man’s smile spread wider as he spoke.

“You’ve let me get away with so much, Mr. Holmes. A punishment is surely warranted.” Sherlock blinked hard as John stepped in front of him in a quick defensive move. The stranger made no move to step forward, nor did he try back away, he simply finished his thoughts with his slight Irish lilt. “If you don’t want to freeze, I’d be happy to burn you.”


	18. Time to Wake Up

                Danger rung off of the trees and each breath that came to Sherlock’s lips seemed to send the message back. The nightmare was real. The slick young man stood calmly, hands pocketed, in the freshly cut grass of the Summer Estate. It was as if Sherlock had known him for years but couldn’t quite recall where they had met, like a distant relative or an old schoolmate. Sherlock gasped around the cold air that threatened to freeze his lungs as the nightmare man stood calmly in front of him with his lips curled around a smile.

“Mr. Holmes,” the nightmare said with a languid shrug of his shoulders, looking at Sherlock with dark eyes that narrowed in dangerous interest. “I do believe we need to have a nice, long, heart-to-heart chat.”

“No.” John said instantly, not giving Sherlock the chance to spit something sharp at the stranger through his frozen breaths. “That’s not happening.”

                The nightmare’s easy-going attitude melted away at John’s words, and his dark eyes settled on John with a sharpness that made the treetops rustle restlessly and the branches to shudder nervously. He took several steps forward, closing the relatively short gap between himself and Sherlock while his glare remained glued to John. Sherlock coughed hard in alarm as his mind began to cloud over from a lack of proper oxygen. Though neither John nor the stranger showed any signs of being cold, Sherlock shivered against the frozen air that caught in his lungs. The air around him was cold enough to make him shudder uncomfortably and involuntarily. John eyed him warily, and the nightmare smiled at him.

“I’m sorry, but when did you get an envoy, Mr. Holmes?” He pointed nonchalantly to John with a thin finger. “I mean, it’s cute. Very cute. I can see why you like him.” John scowled disagreeably and Sherlock scrunched his eyes closed while he coughed into his hand, trying desperately to increase airflow. “I think you should call off your little guard dog before I get rid of him for you. Snap his neck, maybe.” He smiled at Sherlock while the Deity huffed heavily. “Then we can talk properly, like big boys. If you’re still alive by that point, I mean.”

                If it weren’t for the overcoming dizziness in Sherlock’s brain, the Deity would’ve glared at his nightmare. John’s normally calm hands tightened into fists, and Sherlock watched as the blonde stepped closer to him. As if John had become a brick wall, the Sentry was the only thing that kept the nightmare from merely reaching out a hand and strangling the Deity that was already suffering from hypothermia, thanks to the stranger.

“I’m not dead… yet.” Sherlock said through chattering teeth. His breath felt hot on his cold lips, and his eyelids felt heavy. Hypothermia was not a comfortable way to go. “Don’t write me off quite yet, Mr…”

“Moriarty,” the nightmare said with a smile, bowing deeply with a flourish of his right hand to the side. “James Moriarty. You’d think that you would know my name.” James laughed for just a moment before he caught Sherlock’s dazed eyes. “After all, you created me.”

“Sherlock, don’t listen to him,” John said quickly, spreading his arms out to his sides as if to block James from moving any closer. The nightmare responded by stepping closer to John and snarling in a way that Sherlock knew was meant to be frightening. Sherlock doubted the loyal Sentry would be shaken. With his another wracking cough into his hand, Sherlock tried to flex his fingers, only to feel that Moriarty’s nightmarish cold had made him lose the feeling in the appendages. Instead, his hands shook as their normal pale appearance began to turn an alarming shade of light blue.

“You think you have a _place_ here, don’t you?” Moriarty whispered to John. Sherlock gave the nightmare a sidelong glance before squinting at John’s stony expression. James smiled. “That’s so precious. You think you matter in this conversation.” The nightmare backed up a few paces with a hollow chuckle. “Don’t get me wrong, this is a very cute appearance, but it’s not very flattering for a Sentry of your stupidity.”

John parted his lips around a reply, and Sherlock huffed around a struggling breath. With a start, John turned to stare at Sherlock’s shaking frame. His warm hands rushed up to catch Sherlock’s cheeks, his hair, and his shoulders. It was as if John thought he could somehow stop the cold that Moriarty brought into Sherlock’s body with a gentle touch of his warm hands. When John turned back to the nightmare with a glare that was sure to frighten even Death into hiding, James held up a hand. The Sentry’s eyes blinked blurrily as Moriarty wagged his finger to and fro, as if John was a child being punished for interrupting something important.

“Hold on, now. The grown-ups are talking.”

                Moriarty’s eyes slid to Sherlock, and his thin lips curled into a smile that made Sherlock already foggy mind tilt and shift. Just for a moment, Sherlock let his eyes close. For only a moment, he was completely oblivious to the world around him. He was on the ground. John was saying things in his ear, and Sherlock felt John’s warm breath washing over his frigid skin. Sherlock’s eyes struggled to open while John began to shout cloudy, hasty words.

                With his cold cheek pressed to the warm grass, Sherlock heard words like ‘frozen’ and ‘heartless’ through his clouded ears. It was as if he’d held himself under the water in the bathtub for much too long, and Mycroft was calling from him to get out of the tub immediately. It was all blurry and far away, but he could recognize the agitated tepidness in John’s words and the cool, indifferent lilt in Moriarty’s replies, too far away to be audible in his state. Death by hypothermia was supposed to be slow, Sherlock thought to himself as he blinked slowly and his eyelashes stuck together. It was supposed to take time, according to his many experiments on small rodents and researching in his schools’ library.

                Death was supposed to be slow for him, and that’s exactly what he felt. His heart rate slowed, and his every breath was a Sherlock tried to open his eyes, catching only a glimpse grey through his dark, heavy eyelashes. Everything was numb, as if the very idea of moving was a sin in the face of death; in Sherlock’s eyes, death seemed sweeter than living a life without being able to move. It was a welcome thought. A disturbing thought but welcome all the better.

                Breath moved through Sherlock’s parted lips in a shallow whisper, and the young Deity began to question just how many breaths he had left. Too many to count, or too little to cherish? Relaxing against the soft grass, Sherlock let his eyes stay closed. Even if he opened them, the sight of John’s frantic hands would be all that he’d see through the haze of numbness. Death was slow, and apparently, death was silent.

                Heat. Against his cheek, along his arm, warmth radiating over the smooth place of his forehead and down his neck. It fell over him in a wave, as if someone had draped an electric blanket over him. Sherlock made a questioning noise in the back of his throat, and inhaled the scent of peppermint as another rush of heat washed over his cheeks. Then there was the feeling of thousands of needles stabbing him as the numbness in his limbs began to fade. They jabbed into his flesh and made him shiver against the warmth that was holding him down. Sherlock squirmed and there was a loss of warmth around his legs. Another surge of heat fell over his eyes, as if the eclipsed sun had come out from hiding to grace him with warm sunlight.

“You know this is pointless,” Moriarty called from a distance, sounding tired and exasperated. “If you want him to be warm, I can set him on fire. Either way, he’s not getting away from me alive. You know that, don’t you?”

                Prying his eyes open, Sherlock caught a glimpse of John’s cheek before the Sentry turned to no doubt glare at the nightmare. James stood back with a look of distaste written across his face with downturned eyebrows and puckered lips. Blinking tiredly, Sherlock noted that John was hovering over him and his Markings were exposed, revealing the honey-coloured light that was keeping Sherlock warm, despite Moriarty’s attempts to freeze him. John looked back to Sherlock, smiling ever so slightly before taking a deep breath and giving out a heavy exhale that warmed Sherlock’s cheeks. Peppermint. A scent commonly used in toothpaste and sweets, but undeniably John’s, covered Sherlock’s face and encased him in the subtle feeling that he was protected.

“John,” he said quietly against the rush of John’s breath. John sat back and watched Sherlock’s expression carefully. “If you keep doing that, I’ll start sweating.”

“Hear that, Johnny-Boy? He doesn’t want you to help him,” James said with laughter in his words, watching John scowl as he helped Sherlock sit up. With a shiver, Sherlock gave his nightmare a pointed look as he searched for a weapon. In every murder, James would take the offending weapon of choice from his pocket, be it a switch-blade or even his own two hands. A smile slid onto Moriarty’s face. “I think… Mr. Holmes, deep down… I think you want to die.”

                Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching as Moriarty shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, taking his time with his words.

“I think,” he said again with slow over-annunciation through his Irish lilt, “that you want to end whatever has been happening between the two of you.” James pointed a line between Sherlock and John with a smile. “You got bored. Don’t worry, a man of your genius is bound to get bored of everything he has now and again. So you made me. You invented something to keep you occupied.” James’ shoulders picked up in a shrug while he pushed his hands back into his pockets. “I’ve got to admit. It’s been fun. Well, it’s been fun for me… not so much for our victims. There’s a lot of bad blood on that front.”

                Moriarty laughed a bit while Sherlock took John’s hand and held it tight. He hadn’t been bored of John. He would never grow bored of John. People changed every day, and he wanted to be there to see every change that occurred with John. There was no one else he wanted to do such things with, and as his own invention, Moriarty should’ve known that. With another shrug, James shook his head.

“And then you just had to go and… and ruin the game. You went looking for an _out._ Running to your Mummy’s old Sentries for help?” James sighed heavily and his smile drooped. “I expected so much more from you. I mean, I could’ve given you what you wanted. You want to solve puzzles, and I want to keep going with my… what did you call it? Ah, yes. My ‘consulting criminal’ business.” Moriarty nodded almost fondly before his eyes caught Sherlock’s and held him with a sharp stare. “We could’ve worked off of each other, Sherlock. We could have been great.”

“Sherlock is already great without you,” John said quickly as he pulled Sherlock up and held the unsteady Deity to his shoulder. His Markings glowed an agitated eburnean colour, and his blue eyes glinted in the sallow light of the solar eclipse. “He doesn’t need a nightmare to be amazing. He’s perfectly fine the way he is now.”

“He doesn’t want to be perfectly fine!” Moriarty shouted, taking his hands out of his pockets and waving them at Sherlock pointedly. “He wants to be _the best_! And you,” he pointed at John and narrowed his eyes. “You are not what he needs. He needs _me._ He needs an enemy. For every hero, there must be a villain.”

“Can’t I speak for myself?” Sherlock intervened, feeling John slip a hand around his wrist, as if to stop him from doing something stupid. The Deity liked to think of himself as more intelligent than that of the normal teenagers, and did not feel a strong urge to move forward and be ever closer to the murderer in front of him. “Contrary to popular belief, I am quite capable.” Sherlock raised his chin a bit, looking down at James over his nose. “And here I was, thinking that it annoyed you when people speak for me. You don’t have much trouble doing it. Hypocrisy must be a solid factor in my nightmares, especially if it’s so important to you.”

                The moment of pause between the exchange of words was like a moment for breathing fresh air. It was a brief respite from the twists and turns that Sherlock’s normal dreams had begun to take, and there was a moment that Sherlock could believe that Moriarty wasn’t truly a nightmare, but just another person he’d met on the street. If only it was that simple, Sherlock wouldn’t be stuck with the reality that he was responsible for so many deaths. James raised his eyebrows and pushed his hands into his pockets once more while he spoke.

“You’re right. You _do_ have several people speaking for you.” James gave John a sharp look while the Sentry moved to stand at an angle in front of Sherlock. The nightmare sighed and shook his head as he pulled a browning out of his pocket. “It would be easier to have your attention if there was only one of us.” Moriarty’s lips turned up into a smile as he looked to Sherlock for some sort of agreement. The Deity’s eyes went wide as Moriarty cocked the gun, flicking his finger against the safety. “Wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock reached up a hand stupidly, as if that could somehow halt Moriarty’s movements. “Stop --”

                Sherlock flinched as the gun went off, bringing his hands to hide his face instinctually. That meant he didn’t get the chance to see the force of the gunshot push Moriarty’s body back, causing a slight shift in his tense stance. He didn’t get to see the way John stumbled back in shock, and he didn’t get to see the way John’s scrunched shut as he braced himself. The sound was quick and loud, like a shot of thunder that rumbled through the sky and shook the earth beneath Sherlock’s feet. When Sherlock realized that he was unharmed, the earth might as well have fallen out from under his feet. It would have been a more blissful experience than the one that was waiting for him when he saw the results of the gunshot.

It was quick, Sherlock realized as he opened his eyes. Death was quick. He knew from experience. Many noises led up to its great upcoming – talking to James, the movement of the trees, the gunshot – but ultimately, death itself tended to come quietly and quickly. It gave no audible presence while it came and stole away whatever was injured, and it left without consent. Death was silent, death was swift. There was no chance to scream, and there was no opportunity for Sherlock to properly command the cessation of James’ movements.

Sherlock watched John in a shocked daze, feeling his heart ache as John’s lips remained parted around a shocked ‘oh’. A bullet hole rested in John’s left shoulder, just above his collarbone. When Sherlock parted his lips around a harried exhale, John’s legs seemed to collapse beneath him, and the Sentry fell. It was all much too quick. Sherlock had blinked, and John was gone. The blue eyes that Sherlock loved rolled back, strong legs that had led him through the Strange House and the Summer Estate buckled, and let the blonde fall onto the grass in a graceless heap.

Taking only a second to breathe in the thick scent of fear, Sherlock dropped to his knees and pushed John back so that he could see his face. John’s blue eyes were glazed and heavy as Sherlock brushed blonde hairs from his forehead. Looking down at John’s shoulder, Sherlock saw the blood seeping through his striped shirt, and immediately brought his hands to rest over the wound, pressing down in a desperate attempt to keep the blood inside John’s body. The Sentry responded with a hoarse shout, closing his eyes and turning his head away from Sherlock, squirming under the hands that brought him more pain.

It was as if the idea of living was some sort of disservice to John, and Sherlock’s shaky recollection of first-aid was harming him more that it was helping him. John’s Markings flickered like dying lights, behaving like the wound was somehow putting out the flame that rested in John’s very soul. Somehow, the wound that opened up John’s skin was smothering the fire in his chest, and there was no way Sherlock could save the Sentry without showing humans what John really was. But, Sherlock didn’t have time to think about such frivolous things. There were no bandages at his immediate disposal, and John was losing blood.

“Impressive.” Moriarty said with a low-pitched whistle. He tipped the gun over in his hands, turning it over and spinning it on his finger as if it was a child’s toy. “He’s the Sentry, and you’re the Deity. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that _he_ was supposed to worry about _you_. Not vice versa.”

Sherlock ignored him, bending over John’s face and pressing all of his weight down onto John’s blood slicked shoulder. The Sentry parted his lips around a shout, but the sound wasn’t projected as Sherlock breathed heavily.

“John. John, don’t…” Sherlock blinked hard as John’s face scrunched up in pain, holding his unsteady hands down against the wound as John’s breathing became heavy. “Don’t die. Don’t leave. You can’t leave. I need you to stay here.”

Looking about the yard uneasily, Sherlock searched for any sight of Mrs. Hudson in the windows of the Summer Estate, only seeing the dark glass that reflected the sad light of the solar eclipse. No one could help. Sherlock breathed out frantically, leaning over John again and feeling his hands slip against hot, wet blood. His hands pushed into the grass, and he looked down at them with a horrified expression as he caught sight of the grass and dirt that covered them. John groaned.

“John, tell me what to do.” Sherlock said urgently, looking down at John’s face that was contorted in pain. “You have to tell me what to do because I…” John’s eyes opened to peer up at Sherlock tiredly, and the Deity felt his face grow warm with frantic embarrassment. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, John.”

With a soft exhale, John breathed out the words, “Just wake up. It’s a dream, Sherlock.” Sherlock shook his head slowly, not quite understanding. “It can’t hurt you if you wake up, you know…” John let out a rough breath, and Moriarty scoffed from his place across the lawn. “You just need to wake up, and live… reality.”

“There’s no such thing as reality for you, Sherlock,” Moriarty said with a smile on his lips, continuing to turn the browning over in his hands. “You’re a Deity of Dreams. Reality will always be compromised by the dreams you bring to life. There’s no such thing as reality.”

                Looking to James for a moment, Sherlock narrowed his eyes sceptically. If there was no reality, how did John know that this was a dream? Did John know something that he didn’t know? John did know more about the life that Sherlock hadn’t been able to explore in the first part of his life, and it was only a matter of knowing how to help John.

“John, I don’t know how.” Sherlock glanced down at his dirty hands, choosing instead to press his forearms against John’s shoulder and leaning his weight into the action while John made a low gargling noise. “How do I wake up from a dream that isn’t a dream?”

John gritted his teeth as Sherlock pushed his arms down harder, soaking the cream coloured fabric of his button up shirt a sad cramoisy shade of red.

“It _is_ a dream, Sherlock. Don’t listen to him.” John’s lungs contracted around a huff of air, and small flecks of blood dotted the surface of his lips as he fought to finish his thoughts. “You have to wake up, and live the life that is waiting for you. This isn’t real. He can’t hurt you.”

                Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sight of blood on John’s lips. Blood from his mouth could mean that a vein in his lung was damaged, or a vital artery in his heart had been hit by the bullet. Blinking rapidly and leaning down a bit, Sherlock stared down at John’s parted lips and watched as John sucked in one shallow breath after another.

“How? _How_?” Sherlock licked his lips as John’s eyes fluttered shut. “John, don’t close your eyes! You need to tell me how to wake up from this.” Sherlock lifted his dirty hands to John’s cheeks, pressing his thumbs into the ridges of John’s cheek bones and hollering to the unconscious and quite possibly dead Sentry. “John! You need to tell me how to wake up!”

                The grass gave off hushed warnings as Moriarty moved toward Sherlock, whispering the same sound of danger that lingered in the treetops and branches of the forest beyond them. John had left instructions for Sherlock, and the Deity wanted nothing more than to believe that the only person he had ever chosen to care for was not truly dead. According to John, nothing around him was real. John wasn’t dead. His heart hadn’t stopped beating, and the fading of his Markings was merely a speculation in his dreams. It was all a dream.

                James came to a stop next to Sherlock, taking a deep breath and sighing lightly when the Deity didn’t look up from John’s still face. The only person Sherlock had ever loved was gone. Lying on the grass in a motionless pile, John was not glowing, and his skin didn’t hold its natural warmth. A chill settled in the air without John’s warmth, and Sherlock didn’t move from his place over John, holding his hands to the clotting blood and pushing down on the unmoving body beneath him. He didn’t want to accept it. Death was not something that could occur to John. Not _his_ John. John was supposed to go on living forever, being wonderfully incredible and stupidly optimistic with every coming morning. Something like a bullet was not supposed to end John’s life. Nothing was supposed to end it. John was supposed to live.

                “John,” Sherlock murmured to the hushed body beneath him, moving his soiled hands so they sat heavily atop John’s shoulders, shaking him slowly as if the Sentry could be woken from his state. “John, I don’t know,” next to him, Moriarty snorted derisively at the repeated confession, but Sherlock merely grit his teeth and shook John once more. “I don’t know how to wake up from this.”

“Sherlock,”

The Deity turned up his head at the sound of a female voice. Not Mrs. Hudson’s. It was much to light and smooth to be the landlady’s voice. It wasn’t either of the two female Sentries that Sherlock had spoken too earlier. They had both carried their voices in different register, one with a heavy accent, and the other with a paper thin voice that could barely be heard. Sherlock blinked, and looked up at Moriarty, seeing an expression of complete disgust on the nightmare’s face. When the voice called for Sherlock once more, the teen closed his eyes and pressed his face down into John’s still chest.

“Shut up,” he demanded feebly, curling his fingers around the curve of John’s shoulders and soaking in the last bit of warmth that lingered around the skin. “I have to wake up… so, shut up. Stop trying to confuse me. I… I have to wake up.”

There was a soft laugh that responded to Sherlock’s words. It was soft enough to be associated with a young woman, but not quite foreign enough for Sherlock to safely say that the voice belonged to a stranger. It was someone that he knew, and as he lifted his head to find the source of the voice, Sherlock realized that Moriarty was gone. The entire Summer Estate was gone, form the grass under his feet to the large house that should have been to his right. Nothing but a blank whiteness surrounded him, and Sherlock took short, frightened breaths as he turned his head down to see that John had disappeared as well.

“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted as he stood frantically, stumbling over his own feet and turning around in a wide circle. Nothing but the vast emptiness of eternity stretched out before him, and nothing was there to hold onto, not even the memory of John could comfort him from the growing hysteria building in his body. Sherlock felt hot tears welling in his eyes as he turned around to see nothing but emptiness once more. “Stop. I need to wake up. I need to wake up and find John,” Sherlock ignored the way tears made salty tracks down his cheeks when he blinked. “I need to wake up. I have to… John,” Sherlock breathed out and held his face in his hands, noting the lack of blood and dirt on them as he did so. “I need John. I need to wake up.”

“Oh, darling…” the disembodied voice called to him softly, pausing Sherlock’s racing thoughts and drawing his attention back to the immensity of nothing around him. The familiarity was from so long ago, Sherlock had to dig back in his memories to recall where he’d heard it before. It was a voice that calmed him down when he had nightmares as a younger boy, the voice hat told him to behave at the dinner table, and the voice that whispered goodnight to him. Sherlock peered over his shoulder to stare at the graceful silhouette of his mother in awe. “You already have.”


	19. What was Waiting for Me

“Mummy.”

The two syllables that made up his mother’s title almost sounded reverent on Sherlock’s lips. The act of speaking broke up the leaden feeling of dread in Sherlock’s stomach, replacing it with quivering, frantic excitement. Sherlock blinked, making sure his mother was still standing before him when he opened his eyes. He was sure that it wasn’t possible to see his mother anymore, and she was surely gone, just as she was ten years ago.

But there she stood. Among the blank canvas that was the world around them, she stood with her long brown hair curling over her shoulders lovingly, just as Sherlock recalled as a child. Danabell Holmes stood with squared, thin shoulders that traced a smooth line down her arms and to her hands that were clasped in front of her. A black dress sculpted the curves of her hips and smooth lines of her legs, coming to a comfortable rest at her ankles. She stood with the fluid grace of a Goddess, with her chin held high and her shoulders held back. But there was a certain fluidness in the stance, letting through a hint of the serene mother he had lost ten years ago. Relaxed, uncaring, and unrushed.

Heat welled up in Sherlock’s chest, his eyes, his cheeks… it spread throughout his body just as quickly as a chill settled over him. Hot and cold all at once. Alive and dead. It was a numb, shocked feeling. Mummy was right in front of him. Gone for so many years, and now she had come from whatever part of the Heavens she governed to find him. After begging and pleading as a child for too many long hours at her funeral, after long nights spent awake thinking of her soothing voice, she was living and breathing, standing before him as if she’d never left.

                He could laugh and cry all at once. Where had she gone for ten years? Had she left a fake body in the coffin for her funeral, and left for the heavens? Why had she left? Was she running toward something… or was she running away from it? Could it be that she left to avoid the disapproval of higher Gods? Or it could be something much more sentimental, like not being able to deal with the pain of heartbreak when her husband began to cheat on her. He wanted to know why she gave him the middle name “Sherlock,” and where the name had come from. He wanted to know why she hadn’t found him much earlier, and stopped him from doing so many stupid things. He wanted to hug her, and he wanted to scream at her. Loneliness, aching, and happiness. These emotions… it must be what an epiphany truly felt like. He wanted so very badly to ask her so many things, and he wanted to tell her everything he could, but no words came to him. He merely looked at her with tears in his eyes and his lips parted around every shaking breath.

Her eyes regarded Sherlock warmly, as if her stormy eyes could somehow reflect the long lost years that spread out between them fondly. It was a gaze that hadn’t seen Sherlock in ten years, and it certainly wasn’t a gaze that Sherlock thought he would see again in his lifetime.

“Mummy,” he muttered again, looking her up and down before stumbling forward to embrace her – perhaps he should have been making sure that she was real and not a hallucination, but he couldn’t think on that at the moment. It was _Mummy_. “Mummy, you’re here.”

                Just before Sherlock could wrap his arms around the Goddess, two hands clapped onto Sherlock’s shoulders and jerked him back. It was startling. Enough so that it made Sherlock’s head snap back and his feet to slip against the white surface that was “ground.” His hands came up defensively and aggressively, solely determined to rid himself of whatever barrier was keeping him from his mother and from salvation. Salvation from his nightmares, or salvation from his insanity? Sherlock wondered if he could tell the difference.

“Watch yourself.”

                Sherlock twisted his neck to look back to gaze at the source of the new, gruff voice that held him in place just a few paces away from his mother. The man behind him was just an inch taller than he was, with silver hair that gleamed like the trail of a falling star. Just like the stardust colour of his hair, the man’s blue eyes were worn with age, and watched Sherlock with a distant kind of interest. Sherlock looked to his mother for an explanation, and she merely gave him a tired smile.

“Sorry, love. He doesn’t take well to strangers.” Danabell raised her hand and waved dismissively at the Sentry, resulting in Sherlock’s release. The teenager shrugged off the older man and tucked himself into his mother’s arms quickly, and she embraced him easily. “I’m sorry about him, darling. I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock pivoted his head to look over his shoulder again to peer at the man that was standing at attention just a few steps away. “Who is he?”

Sherlock’s mother let her fingers card through Sherlock’s wild curls slowly as she spoke, soothing away any remaining discomfort that could have possibly lingered in her son’s mind.

“This is Gregory, a Sentry that I enlisted the help of almost seven years ago.” Sherlock leaned back in his mother’s arms, and she presented him with a kiss to his forehead before pulling him back into the warm hug. “He’s here to keep away any kind of threat.”

                Sherlock snorted softly. “And I’m a threat?”

The Goddess hummed against Sherlock’s head where her cheek rested comfortably, continuing to slide her fingers through his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to be comforted. However, there was still a lingering sense of displacement in his mind. Was he supposed to be here, or did he somehow take a wrong turn on the way to reality?

“Where are we?” He murmured into his mother’s shoulder as she pat his back softly. His eyes travelled up to look at the “sky,” only to see the colourless canvas stretch on forever. It was white no matter where he looked, void of colour and void of life. “What is this place?”

With a smile, Danabell stepped back and swept her arms out to the side to somehow indicate to the massive amount of nothingness around them.

“This is my Palace,” she said with a broad sweep of her arms once more. Sherlock arched an eyebrow sceptically, but watched as his mother turned on her heel and sent the hem of her black dress fluttering as she looked up. “It’s where I returned when I left the human word, down below. This place is perfect, Sherlock. The world below the heavens is complicated and messy. You have to understand how ridiculous it is down there.” Sherlock’s lips turned down at the corners to expression his distaste for normality as his mother looked back at him warmly. “But my Palace… my Palace is perfect. There is nothing out of reach here.”

As if to prove a point, she reached out to her right and pulled a silver goblet from thin air. Sherlock blinked hard, scrunching his eyes closed and forcing himself to accept the idea that his mother had conjured the cup from nowhere. Magic was held in the air around them, suspended by the presence of the ornate cup in the Goddess of Dreams’ right hand. Shocked, Sherlock stumbled back a few steps and found himself colliding with Gregory the Sentry, his blue eyes glinting with disapproval and his lips twisted into a scowl. Sherlock shuffled forward and away from the Sentry, avoiding the gaze that inspected for criminal behaviour and turning back to his mother’s sleepy silver eyes.

“In my Palace, any ‘dream’ can be a reality. Anything can be achieved.”

                Anything can be achieved. Sherlock thought over the words for a moment. All on his own, he had accomplished many things without the aid of a special Palace. He had discovered the magic that had been passed down from his mother, he had seen the dreams of another person, and John… John. He had almost overlooked the terrifying death while in his mother’s Palace. He had almost forgotten the hot, sticky blood on his hands and the tang of iron in the air. He had almost forgotten the words John had sighed. How could he do something like that? He loved John, didn’t he? Why would he forget someone who made such a pivotal and wondrous change in his life? Sherlock looked up at his mother with a stricken gaze, and she cocked her head to the side with a smooth smile.

“I need to go back,” he mumbled lowly, looking around once more at the vast emptiness around him before returning his gaze to the Goddess. “I need to go… you said I’ve woken up, so… I need to find John.”

“Find him?” Danabell said with an almost humorous lilt to her words, smothering her smile beneath the completion of her question. “Have you lost him, darling?”

                Nodding his head, Sherlock tried to think about the fact that he had in fact lost John in his own nightmare, and there was still the underlying guilt that he had let the Sentry die. Even if it he had woken up from the dream, it still happened, and he was the cause of John’s untimely death. John’s death, if Sherlock had only had proper control of it, should’ve been very different. If Sherlock could’ve had the last word, John’s death would have come much, much later. It would have been at a time when John’s hair had turned a storm cloud grey and teacup white with age. It would have been filled with soft-spoken words and the subtle brush of his fingers over John’s cheek. Sweet, soft, and _unrushed_. If Sherlock had only had proper control, John’s dream-death would have never occurred.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed as he looked down at the white ground. “Yes, I… I’ve lost him. I need to go back. I need to find him, and tell him –”

“Enough, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s mother said with a wave of her hand, tipping the goblet over and pouring what looked to be gold paint onto the white floor. It spread out in all directions, just as any liquid would, but with another wave of Danabell’s hand, it began to bubble as if the floor had been set to boil. “Why go back there to tell him whatever it is you need to tell him if you can just tell him here?”

                With his lips parted around a protest that never appeared, Sherlock watched as the effervescing golden paint began to fight the laws of gravity, moulding itself upward. It casted itself into the shape of a person, vague and unrealistic like a dripping gold mannequin, before the trembling liquid reshaped itself again. It mapped out the curves of shoulders and the light fall of hair across a golden forehead, and ran beads of paint over two strong legs while different layers of the thin paint traced the hem of trousers and cuffs of shirt sleeves.

                If an artist had appeared from the floor and sculpted a perfect replica of John, Sherlock assumed that it would look something like the person that stood before him. As the golden paint began to fade into the natural colours that made up John, the gleaming white fabric of his shirt became apparent, the long white legs of his trousers were visible, and a faint coral coloured blush rested on the cheeks that Sherlock remembered kissing earlier that morning. It was John.

                It stood like him, with the majority of its weight pressed onto its left foot, just like John. It blinked like him, fluttering its eyelashes as the eyes first opened, just like John did when he woke up in the morning. It even breathed like him, parting its lips around a large inhale as it saw Sherlock and smiled, just like John did when Sherlock walked into the room. It _was_ John.

“John,” Sherlock breathed as he looked at the young man in front of him with wide eyes. He rushed forward and brushed his shaking fingers across the boy’s cheeks, feeling real skin beneath his hands. With a smile, Sherlock let out a breath and took John up in his arms, holding the blonde close and breathing in the scent of freshly cut grass. “John, John…”

                Freshly cut grass. Sherlock leaned back and gave the Sentry in his arms a regarded him carefully, watching the opalescent eyes blink at him slowly and seeing the familiar thin lips curve around a smile. It was all very much like John, from the shape of his eyebrows to the way he sighed softly through his nose when Sherlock stared at him, but Sherlock know the truth. It was John, but only to a fault. It wasn’t the John that Sherlock fell in love with, and it wasn’t the one that had died beneath his hands that very day. It wasn’t peppermint, it was a freshly mowed lawn. It wasn’t John’s scent.

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked incredulously, looking to his mother with an expression of utmost urgency. “What did you do to John? Where is John? I want the _real_ one. Not this, this…” he waved feebly at the freshly sculpted John with annoyed fervour. “This humanization of paint!”

Danabell Holmes shook her head to and fro while she fluttered her fingers in the air nervously, showing that she didn’t have the right words to express exactly what she had done. As if to punctuate that fact, she let out a low hiss and shrugged smoothly.

“I’ve given you what you asked for, darling.” Danabell sighed at the perturbed expression her son sent her way, and gave him the most empathetic smile she could muster. “You’ve asked for John, and that’s what I’ve given you. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy, love,” she pursed her lips for a moment before continuing. “And if this is what will make you happy, then I will give it to you. No prayer for sweet dreams required.”

Sherlock shook his head fervently, taking the shoulders of the ‘John’ in front of him and pushing him back and away. He didn’t want a substitute. There was no possible substitute for John, no matter how close the copy. The one that stood only a few steps away from him with a seemingly permanent smile on his face was not, and never would be, the John that he had fallen in love with. There was an original John somewhere, and the teenage Deity knew that it was the only John he would ever want.

“No, I want John. The real John. The John that lied to Mycroft about who he is, and the one that showed me the God’s and Deity’s market. I want the John that gave me your diary, and the one that showed me how to understand my own power. I don’t want _this_.” Sherlock waved at the copy-John dismissively once more, ignoring the adoring smile that was sent his way. “I don’t want a replacement, I want the real –”

“The real John is gone, child.” The Goddess said with a flat tone, shaking her head in disapproval while she crossed her arms over her chest. “And you should know that. It was all a dream, don’t you see?” She stepped past the copy-John and held her arms out for Sherlock to embrace her, but when her son didn’t move, she forced a nervous smile. “If it’s something certain about John that I’ve missed, you can make a perfect copy, I’m sure. Making things here is simple. You don’t have to be asleep, and it doesn’t have to be a nightmare or dream… if it can be wished for in this Palace, it can be a reality.”

Sherlock shook his head at the idea with a cross expression. There would be no replacing John, no matter how close the finite details were to the real person. Sherlock could remember nervous tics and daily routines, and he could remember the redeeming and ignorant factors of John’s personality, but there was something Sherlock knew all too well: people change. If he only made a copy of John, it wouldn’t be the same as having the same person by his side. He didn’t want to know everything about the copy-John, from the expectant laughter and watching him with a loving gaze wherever he went. He wanted the unexpected and interesting tendencies of John’s sporadic affections littered over him in the form of kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, his collar… he wanted the light scolding from John’s lips when he didn’t finished his plate of food. He wanted to hear John’s light berating when he stayed up until the sun rose high in the sky and neglected sleep, and the he wanted the surprising feeling of John’s hands on his shoulders, dragging him down to the covers of the bed to sleep while he kicked and screamed.

He wanted the real John, with all of his unexpectedness and aberrations that could change with a slight change in mood and setting. He didn’t want to have the copy reacted in a way he would have to have programmed in him from the very beginning, like computer software. He wanted John’s kindness and forgiveness, and he wanted John’s fire and determination. He didn’t want guesswork and predictability, he wanted the thrill of discovery when it came to John’s everyday life, and the elation that came with every piece of treasure he could discover along the way.

“I want the real John, Mummy.” Sherlock tried to express his urgency while his mother looked to her right, shaking her head and gracing the floor with a beautifully sad visage. “Mummy, I love you, you know I do, but I also love John.” Danabell’s eyes snapped up to catch Sherlock’s gaze in great hurry, gauging the truth in his words through the sincerity that swam in his eyes while he continued. “I need the real one, not a copy.”

“Why need him at all?” Danabell questioned desperately as she stepped forward to take Sherlock’s face in her hands. Her thumbs brushed over the line of his cheekbones, and her palms came up to cup his chin as she looked over his delicate features. “Oh, Sherlock. My poor, poor baby… He was just a Sentry. I’m your _mother_. I’ve always been there. No matter what happened, I was always here. I watched every moment you cried, and saw every moment you laughed. When you dreamt, I was there to give you the sweetest dreams I could muster.” Sherlock felt the familiar sting of tears in his eyes, but didn’t feel them as they began to fall, he was busy watching the painfully warm expression on his mother’s face. “I only wanted you to be happy. That’s all I want for you. You want John? I’ll give him to you. I’ll give you one hundred Johns. I give you one thousand Johns if you just ask for it. Anything you want.”

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to think of one good reason not to agree with his mother. None came to mind except for the soft, nagging voices in the back of his mind, far away from any relevant thought that lingered in his head. A voice that scolded him for not sleeping, a voice that reprimanded him for setting the drapes on fire, and a voice that lectured him for going outside in the rain without an umbrella. They were voices that had dictated his life since his mother had gone back to the heavens, and voices that had always held him in a flattering light.

                John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson… each voice was there for a reason, and they were there even when his mother wasn’t. They were loyal, even in Mycroft’s case where he knew that they were only half-brothers. Each one was happy – if not begrudgingly willing – to stay with him as he grew into the young man that he was that very day. He wanted to stay with his mother, but there were so many people that he couldn’t just leave behind. First and foremost, he couldn’t leave behind the real John.

                “Mummy, please.”

                Danabell shook her head with a stricken expression, pulling Sherlock’s face closer with shaking hands as she watched her son’s will to stay with her fade.

                “Don’t go. I’ve only just gotten you back, love. Stay –”

                “You think I want to go?” Sherlock hissed, pushing away his mother’s shaking hands to wrap her up in a tight embrace. There was the tightness of fear and disappointment in Sherlock’s chest, but he knew that he couldn’t stay in a place designed for the Gods when there were people that needed him on Earth. “You think I want to say goodbye, after all this time? I can’t. I can’t leave you, and I can’t accept the fact that I’m losing you all over again. I can’t, but I…” Sherlock closed his eyes as Danabell continued to shake her head against his shoulder. “I have to, Mummy.”

                “But Sherlock,” the Goddess pulled away to indicate to the grand, empty space that was her Palace once more, looking at her son with eyes that glittered with tears. “This place is _perfect_. It’s perfect for us, darling.” Sherlock blinked, and felt old, chilled tears on his cheeks grow warm with fresh trails of salty sadness. Danabell tried to smile, but Sherlock only saw a dejected expression on her beautiful face. “Here, we don’t have to lose anything. Nothing will be out of reach for you, here. You don’t have to lose me, or John,” she waved at the copy-John quickly before finishing. “All of the ones we’ve lost… _we’ll find them again_. It’s safe here. If a nightmare comes to hurt you, I’ll be here to wish it away. It’s safe, happy… _secure_. That’s all I want for you.”

                Closing his eyes to avoid the watery sight of his mother’s desperate actions, Sherlock let the words slide over him. They were sickly sweet and compassionate. They were everything he’d ever wanted from her, loving and devoted, but there was still the fact that his heart couldn’t completely commit to the act of staying with her. She was his mother, and no matter how much she may want to, she didn’t own Sherlock’s heart. John did. He couldn’t just replace the person who held his heart, nor could he simply forget the people that led him to that crucial moment when he met John. He would thank Mycroft for dragging him to the Summer Estate, and thank Mrs. Hudson for giving him the idea to explore the Strange House. And John… he needed to hold John, and tell him that he would never let any nightmares near him ever again.

                “Mummy, I love you.” Sherlock said slowly, blinking several times against the frustration tears that blurred his vision and focusing on the sight of his mother’s downhearted expression. “I love you so much… and I will always miss you. I always have. But,” he shook his head at the copy-John that watched him with a questioning gaze before returning his tear-distorted eyes to his mother. “You know that I’m not staying.”

                Danabell sighed and looked to the floor, swiping at her own cheeks before reaching out and wiping away what tears she could on Sherlock’s smooth cheeks.

                “How is it… that I always knew you’d say something like that?” The Goddess smiled through the sadness that was clearly spelled out in her eyes. “You were… you were always such a smart boy.” Her thin fingers swept up into Sherlock’s hair, and smoothed down a few curls while her eyes looked far away. “Such a smart boy.” Danabell blinked away whatever memory she had been lingering on, and refocused her eyes on Sherlock. “I always knew that you would say something like that… you’ve changed. But, everyone changes… including their dreams.”

                Taking a moment to let out a huff, Sherlock looked to his feet before he raised his eyes to meet his mother’s. Loneliness met him with a smile on his mother’s face that held the force of ten long years behind it. His mother may have had a Palace that could give her anything, including two perfect copies of her son, but Sherlock and his mother would always know the truth: no one could really be replaced. Pasting a smile onto his own lips, Sherlock took Danabell’s hands in his own and squeezed her fingers.

“Don’t worry, Mummy,” he blinked, and two more fresh tears made their way down his cheeks. This kind of sadness was one that Sherlock hadn’t experienced since he was at his mother’s “funeral”. It was hollow and scarring, jarring his senses and making his chest ache. He held her hands tighter as he gave her a forced smile. “You won’t be alone. After all, you have Gregson.”

“Gregory, dear.”

Sherlock made a pinched expression and waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” Gregory the Sentry grunted something almost insulting, but Sherlock paid it no mind as he took in his mother’s mildly amused smile. “As long as he’s here with you, you’re not alone.”

Danabell nodded. “That’s true. So,” she sighed. “You’re leaving so soon… I wish,” her left hand brushed a long curl from Sherlock’s forehead once more before it dropped to take her son’s hands again. “I wish I could’ve made you stay. This place is perfect for us.”

“I know. But,”

“But John isn’t here.”

The teen smiled at his mother’s deflated expression, watching her shake her head as if Sherlock had said something ridiculous. She pursed her lips and narrowed her stormy grey eyes, amusement and humour sparkling in them when she spoke. “If only I had snatched up the real John when I’d had the chance.”

“Mummy,”

“Close your eyes, love,” Danabell reached up her hands to pull Sherlock’s head down enough for her to press a kiss to his forehead. “So many people are waiting for you. Mycroft will be worried, and Mrs. Hudson, too… close your eyes, and go home to them.”

                When Sherlock closed his eyes, the world tilted beneath him. As if the floor beneath him had temporarily forgotten which way it was supposed to lay, it shivered and shifted quickly beneath him, sending him falling back and down into nothingness. It was a shocking feeling of weightlessness that left Sherlock’s stomach feeling as if it was disintegrating inside his body, and every ounce of blood was being pulled to the surface of his skin to cause a fever to burn across his skin. He stretched out his arms to catch himself as he careened backward in his fevered state, and opened his eyes desperately to see what exactly was happening to him.

                Nothing. There was empty blackness stretching out around him; it was the exact opposite of his mother’s Palace. There was no white, and no matter how long Sherlock reached up an arm and waved it in front of his eyes, he couldn’t even see his fingers. He opened his mouth to shout, but when he did, his back hit the springy surface of some sort of furniture, and his teeth clicked together around his tongue. While his trembling hands came up to gingerly feel along the bite on his tender tongue, he took shallow, sharp breaths that rattled his body. What had happened?

“Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, dear…” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came from his left side, and Sherlock turned his head, feeling a pillow underneath his cheek as the older woman passed a soft hand through his thick curls. “Was it a nightmare? Nasty things. Especially with that fever of yours. I nearly jumped out of my skin when you shouted like that.”

                Shouted? Sherlock blinked as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness in the room, and he could begin to pick out the door of a closet and the frame of a bookshelf. He was lying a bed, and to his right, there was a large window that was currently being pounded with rain. It was his bedroom, just as he had left it when he and John had gone outside that morning. He was home.

                The door to his room was open just a sliver, letting in the light of the brightly lit hallway and casting a warm glow into the farthest corners of the room. Mrs. Hudson dipped a rag into a bucket just next to the bed, ringing it out before swiping it over Sherlock’s forehead. The teen closed his mouth and put his hand down on the blankets for a moment of quiet contemplation. He could taste the warm metallic taste of blood from his tongue, but it wasn’t a deep enough bite to cause him to truly worry. The rag across the surface of his face felt strangely nice, and he could almost smell the tang of salt in the air that came from sweat. Swallowing around a dry throat, Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson’s pursed lips and troubled expression.

“Fever?” He questioned, scowling as he heard his own voice come out of his lips as a hoarse whisper.

“Quite a fever. 38.4, to be exact.” Mrs. Hudson took the rag away, leaving Sherlock’s face feeling itchy and hot before the rag was returned, freshly wet down with cold water and pleasing against the feverish skin. “Mycroft had been on the phone with the doctor for over an hour. I told you he was calling the doctor just before you fell asleep, dear. Don’t you remember?”

Sherlock blinked. “No.” Before he fell asleep? He didn’t remember falling asleep with Mrs. Hudson in the room. Where was John? He was supposed to wake up and find John. “No, I don’t. Where’s… where’s John?”

Mrs. Hudson’s ministrations with the rag paused as the woman looked down at Sherlock with a perplexed expression.

“John?”

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock swallowed as a cough threatened to rise up and interrupt him. “Yes, John. John. You know him. From the house on the hill. The Sentry that glows. He lives here now. Where is he?”

With a harried breath, Mrs. Hudson called over her shoulder to the open door.

                “Mycroft, tell that doctor to be quick! I think he’s gotten worse!”

                Irritated with the older woman, Sherlock struggled to sit up in his bed. His limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated, as if someone had taken away all of the muscles and instead left him with appendages filled with lead.

“What are you doing? You _know_ John. You _know_ him,” Mrs. Hudson dropped the rag into the bucket of water and brought her hands up to support Sherlock’s back. Through a fever addled brain, Sherlock could tell that she was frowning with clear signs of worry written across her face in the form of a creased brow and trembling lips. Sherlock leaned away from her. “Where is he? What aren’t you telling me? Where is John?”

When Sherlock made a move to fall out of bed, Mrs. Hudson held onto his shoulders with shaking hands that dug into his skin. “Sherlock, you need to calm down –”

The teen tried to shrug her off, only earning himself a tightened grip from the woman as she held him close. “No, no I don’t need to calm down. I need _John_. That’s why I came back, it’s why I… why are you looking at me like that?” Mrs. Hudson had a flabbergasted expression on her face as the door opened wider, revealing Mycroft in all his three-piece-suit glory. Sherlock looked to his brother desperately, speaking out through the hoarseness that made his throat sting. “Mycroft, do something. She’s gone insane.”

                Mycroft raised his hands up to show Sherlock his palms: a sign of surrender. Sherlock squinted at the gesture, feeling Mrs. Hudson’s hands pat his shoulders in an attempt to be comforting. There was nothing comforting about this. He had left his mother to return to whatever “reality” he had left. Had he taken some sort of misstep? A wrong thought or wish?

“Calm down, now.” Mycroft said evenly, stepping toward the bed with slow, cautious steps.  
“Just calm down. It was a nightmare, Sherlock. You’re alright, now. The doctor should be here any minute, now. You’ll be fine.”

“No, I won’t be fine. Not until I get John.” Sherlock’s jaw dropped when Mycroft’s brow creased in confusion. “ _John_. John Watson. _That_ John. The one that lives here. The one from the house on the –”

“The house on the hill. He mentioned it already, Mycroft.” Mrs. Hudson hummed from where she remained pressed to Sherlock’s side, holding him together as if he’d fall apart without her. “Do you think he’s delusional?”

“It seems likely, with the fever he has.” Mycroft speculated, frowning at Sherlock as the teen’s eyes went wide.

“Delusional? I am _not_ delusional. You know John. Both of you. What’s _wrong_ with the two of you? I just want John. Where is he? _Why are you looking at me like that_?”

Mycroft sighed, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest and arching an eyebrow. “We are looking at you because we don’t know who ‘John’ is. He’s most likely someone from one of your nightmares, Sherlock. You were hallucinating. It’s not real, now.”

Sherlock shook his head, giving his warm head an added dosage of dizziness. “No, no, no. It’s real. I know it is. The house…” turning his head to look out the window, Sherlock choked on his next words when he saw nothing beyond the windowpane besides trees. There was no Strange House, not even any remnants or left behind evidence that there was ever a building there in the first place. It was as if it had been wiped from existence, erased and forgotten by all of those around it. Except for Sherlock. He remembered something that was never there. Or was it?

Turning his eyes back to Mycroft’s pitying stare, Sherlock wondered if the Strange House had ever truly existed. Furthermore, had John? Fighting Mrs. Hudson to get out of bed, Sherlock pushed away her hands. He needed evidence. He needed proof. If John was not in the house with him, he had to know why and how. Had his mother rearranged things so the nightmare had never occurred, or had she simply erased everything to do with the nightmare?

“Let me up,” Sherlock grumbled, then coughed, and then swatted feebly at Mrs. Hudson’s arms, feeling Mycroft place restraining hands on his wrists.  “No, let me up! I need to see,”

“What? What would you need to see at this time of night?”

And now it was night? Sherlock had left the Summer Estate when it was only afternoon. How much had changed after he saw his mother in the heavens? Grimacing at his brother, Sherlock reached up and took a fistful of Mycroft’s jacket, using him as an anchor as he pulled himself up into a standing position. It was a shaky action at first, his knees quaked beneath him, and a heavy wave of vertigo hit Sherlock head on, but Mycroft was quick to loop an arm around his shoulders and hold him steady.

“I need to see the study.”

Mycroft huffed as Sherlock shuffled toward the door, dragging him along. “The study?”

“Father’s study. I need to see… I need to see it.”

It was John’s room. If there really wasn’t a Strange House anymore, then John would not have been inside it. Sherlock would’ve never found him, and in turn, John would’ve never transformed the study into his own room. Trudging down the hall with Mycroft’s shoulder acting as a support beam, Sherlock kept his eyes on the door nearest the kitchen. Their father used to say that it was the best place to put a study because he could always get snacks in the middle of the night without being disturbed by anyone else in the house. But that was no matter, now. Sherlock didn’t care what his father had to say about the study. It was, and always would be, John’s room.

Mycroft’s unburdened left hand reached out to turn the doorknob, and with a slight stick at the start, the door was opened. Shrugging away his brother’s arm, Sherlock stepped over the threshold of the room to stare mournfully at the barren interior. The fireplace sat dim and clean, with no evidence of his and John’s late night fires. The window seat that was John’s bed was void of blankets and not a single pillow adorned the floor. It was a straight-laced study, furnished only by the desk that sat in the far right corner and the table-tray that their father would use to wheel his several selections of fine brandy to his desk when he was working late.

But the real point was the fact that it wasn’t John’s room. Not a single thing that included John was there. Sherlock slumped against the doorframe, rethinking everything that had occurred. He had met John, fallen in love, narrowly escaped a nightmare, and met his Goddess of a mother. Where had all of it gone? Had it been a dream, like Mycroft said?

“Sherlock, what did you expect to see?” Mycroft wondered aloud with a loose gesture to the interior of the room, watching as his younger brother shrugged sadly. Mycroft sighed. “You must have had a very realistic dream. That’s all it was, Sherlock. Just a dream. Fevers will do that to people.” Sherlock didn’t respond, and Mycroft shook his head. “The first day we came to the Estate you didn’t even try to dry off after you came in from the rain. You’ve been in bed with a fever for two days. Don’t you remember?”

No, Sherlock didn’t remember. All of the things that Mycroft mentioned never happened to Sherlock, it was all different. It hadn’t been just two days. It had been two long months with John at his side, teaching him, listening to him, and loving him. It hadn’t been two days, but an entire lifetime and a half of loving John. It had been what he didn’t know he wanted. With John, two months was unforgettable. He couldn’t just forget loving John, and he couldn’t fathom the idea of a life without John. He had shaped his life as a Deity around John, and he couldn’t find a way to reshape it now that he was gone. Or, was he even a Deity anymore?

The doorbell rang. It was a dull, heavy chime that made the walls feel hollow and the house seem small. Mycroft murmured something about staying put to Sherlock, but the teen paid him no heed as the older man turned and went to answer the door. The doorbell was rung once more, held down for a longer amount of time that made the chime drone on for an excessive amount of time. Impatient, Sherlock could guess. Turning to his left where the corner that led to the entryway stood. With shaking hands, he felt along the wall as he wandered to the corner, hearing Mycroft thank someone for “coming on such short notice” with his dulcet tones of indifference.

                Peering around the corner at the guest, Sherlock took in the sight of a long face and brown hair that was swept over to make a noticeable cowlick rather hard to ignore. The man had bright eyes that shone when he smiled, and he shook off his tweed jacket that was dripping from the heavy rain outside before straightening a blue bowtie.

“Yes, quite alright,” his smile never left as Mycroft shook his hand politely. “I’m the doctor, and this is my nephew, John. Hope you don’t mind me bringing him along. His parents are out of the country, I’m afraid.”

                Sherlock’s eyes widened at the mention of John’s name, and stumbled around the corner to see the doctor and his nephew. And there he stood. In all his short, blonde haired, blue eyed glory, there he stood. John. The only person Sherlock ever wanted to love outside of his family. Sherlock’s lips parted around John’s name, but a cough rose up to cut the statement off at the root, leaving the teen with a stuttering cough.

                John’s eyes slid over to catch Sherlock leaning against the corner, and his thin lips immediately turned up into a smile. “We had a little trouble getting here,” he said to Mycroft, not turning away from Sherlock as he held a bag of supplies out to his uncle. “But, it looks like that little slip on the road was well worth it. I think we made it just in time.”

“Yes. Very good, John,” the doctor smiled at the blonde, clapping a hand on his shoulder proudly while he looked to Mycroft with a broad smile. “He wants to be a doctor, someday.”

                Mycroft said something unintelligible, and Sherlock watched as John looked him up and down, assessing every fibre of his being until Sherlock felt completely analysed. But Sherlock still needed proof that this was the same John he had fallen in love with, and not an alternate one. Coughing into his hand once more, Sherlock watched as John’s “uncle” took his bag of supplies and insisted that John should help Sherlock back to bed while the doctor spoke to Mycroft about the symptoms.

                John strode towards him with a sway in his step that exerted a certain amount humour, as if seeing Sherlock sick was something amusing. Sherlock frowned. John always worried about his health and safety, from lack of sleep to lack of eating, John was there to badger him into good health. This John seemed to almost enjoy the sight of Sherlock leaning dependently against the wall. With a narrow-eyed gaze, Sherlock watched as John’s left hand came up to brush his pyjama clothed arm.

“I didn’t think you’d take so long,” John murmured softly, and Sherlock’s eyes widened at the statement. “I almost thought that you’d forgotten me,” John bit his lower lip before looking back up to Sherlock with a trembling smile. “But you came back.”

                Seeing the entryway light catch on something metallic, Sherlock looked down at John’s hand to see the simply silver band that had become a necessary item in the presence of humankind. The ring that Danabell had given John years ago, and the ring that Sherlock had ordered to be taken away only weeks ago. John’s ring. Or… was it? There were too many ways to question reality, and not enough answers to assert it. Licking his lips, Sherlock took John’s hand and began to take of the ring when John’s warm hands grabbed his and pulled them away.

“Sherlock, you told me never to take it off when Mycroft was near me,” Sherlock felt tears prick at his eyes as John looked up at him with watery eyes and a questioning expression. If he remembered the order, it was the real John. The real John that knew about the orders and the magic. It was the real John, just in a different reality. A reality without Sherlock’s nightmare. “Unless you’ve change your mind?”

“No,” Sherlock smiled as he leaned forward to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders and held him close. He smelled of fresh rain and peppermint. He was warm and close. He smiled and surprised him by stopping his hands. Surprising and sweet. Just as he was supposed to be. “No, John. I… I don’t think I’d want it any other way.”

 

END


End file.
